Oh and two

“No one wants to go down to Tuc-
son in the summer. . .” It’s the opening
salvo in Mel Tellis’ song “Send Me Down
1
Oh and Two
by D. R. Jenkins

To Tucson.” The song is based on a
truth though it is a country fable
memorialized. It is Hotter-than-Hades
in Tucson in the summertime. Surely,
on that fact, consensus prevails.
I can feel the sun beating on the back
of my neck for each summer I’ve lived
here; like an amalgamation of
sunburns. In modern times, most Tuc-
son folks avoid the heat of day. They
live in air conditioned homes, work in
air conditioned offices, and migrate
from one to the other in air conditioned
cars.
This proposition does not hold true
for youngsters. Girls and boys, once re-
leased for the summer from school yard
2

prisons find beauty in heat; a freedom
quenching thirsts. I proved to be no dif-
ferent in summer 1962. It was one of
the two summers I played little league.
Not just for any little league team, but
for Tucson Federal Savings. I know, it
sounds like we were little league champi-
ons of the universe. We were not. We
were just one of several teams in the
Frontier Little League; a collection of
neighborhood boys of no significance.
Allow me to introduce myself before
we migrate too far down an anonymous
road. My name is Ritchie Jackson.
While not known as such in 1962, my
high school and college chums crowned
me “Itchie Ritchie Jackson.” They
3

claimed I was always “itchin’” for
trouble. I still wear that moniker these
days, now transcending the year 2011.
Today, I am an educated sort; Doctor
of Philosophy in something or another.
Exactly what matters not for purposes of
telling this story; just know I’m a philoso-
phizing sort. I always like to recount sto-
ries in my life endowed with a certain
sense of ethics. That’s what I am about
to do now. But, here’s the catch: You,
the reader, have to figure out the ethics
underpinning this story. However, I will
send you on your way with a clue in
hand.
If you knew Itchie Ritchie like I know
Itchie Ritchie, you’d probably conclude
4

the ethics lesson has something to do
with a woman. You’d be right. How-
ever, the lesson in loving this woman
comes by recounting a little league story
occurring in my youth some fifteen years
before she was born. What a little
league story has to do with loving her is
an odyssey in the mythological tradition
of the Great Greek Philosophers. With
clue in hand, enjoy the story and argue
about its metaphorical implications.
Now, for the record, let’s return to
summer 1962, the Tucson-based Fron-
tier Little League, and my team, Tucson
Federal Savings. Remember, it’s hotter
than hell in Tucson in the summertime;
easy to get sunburnt.
5

Miraculously, I graduated sixth
grade from John B. Wright Elementary
School somewhere between end of May
and beginning of June 1962. As a result,
I was on my way to seventh grade at
Doolen Junior High. The summer inter-
vened and that meant little league. All
boys my age in the neighborhood were
signing up to play little league that
summer. I wasn’t about to be left be-
hind, so I enlisted as well.
It seemed to be a huge operation.
The entire Frontier Little League played
at Catalina High School, not too far from
the Jackson family headquarters oper-
ated by my then single mother. The first
day of the season, the entire league con-
6

gregated on one of the school’s athletic
fields. It seemed there was an ocean of
guys between 8 and 12 years old, all
ready to play ball.
The little league gods found it their
province to ordain my presence on the
Tucson Federal Savings team. Our uni-
forms were light gray with yellow letter-
ing spelling out Tucson Federal Savings
across the chest. We donned yellow
baseball caps. I was awarded mine with
the advisory I could keep the ball cap.
But, at season’s end, I would have to re-
turn the uniform.
We broke out into our teams and gath-
ered around our head coach. He was a
know-it-all (my present day reflective
7

characterization) by the name of Monty
Carlson. Monty went through various ex-
ercises to determine everyone’s relevant
skill set.
My teammates tried out for pitcher
or outfielder; or aspired to play first
base, second base, third base, or short
stop. But, no one in particular wanted
to be the catcher. As fate would have it
and since my skill set failed to qualify
me for any other position, the odd job of
being the team catcher befell my yet-to-
be-developed philosophical ass. That is,
I was cast by fate to play behind the
plate as the Tucson Federal Savings little
league catcher during summer 1962.
8

There are a few unique aspects in be-
ing the team catcher. First, your gear is
different than every other position.
Sure, the first base guy had a different
fielding glove than other infield and out-
field positions; but that’s not as special
as all the stuff I had to wear to get the
job done. Like the first baseman, my
glove was also different than all the
other infielders and outfielders. It was
round with a wide catching area in the
middle.
The catcher is the only player on the
field to wear protective equipment.
Back in those days, the catcher’s mask
was simply a padded steel grate attached
to your face with two or three nylon
9

straps. To be appropriately cool, the
reigning fashion statement handed
down from the Big Leagues involved the
catcher wearing his ball cap backwards
with its bill pointing more down than
back.
Of course, an important part of a
catcher’s style is determined by his pa-
nache in offing that mask, either to
throw out a devious base runner or to
call off all on-comers to catch the peri-
odic pop-fly. The fling of the mask is
critical. The aspiring catcher’s declara-
tion he will someday be celebrated at
Cooperstown is measured by the author-
ity by which that mask hits the dirt and
raises a cloud of dust.
10

Catchers wear shin guards. Shin
guards are not worn just behind the
plate. When standing in the next-at-bat
circle along the baseline, the prepared
catcher will have already donned his
shin guards—just in case two outs be-
come three. After all, fastening those
shin guards takes an inordinate amount
of time and the catcher does not want to
become persona non grata out of hold-
ing up the game’s progress.
The last visible form of protection
worn by the catcher is his chest
protector. The ribbed cover protects
shoulders, chest and abdomen. The pro-
tector does allow the catcher’s arms to
wield freely; enabling that rocket throw
11

to second base. The key word is “ena-
bling.”
But, I would be remiss in this tale of
ethics if I didn’t share the catcher’s hid-
den secrets. On the first day our team
met, Coach Carlson said, “All right ‘fel-
las,’ gather round. The league has pro-
vided your uniform and ball cap. How-
ever, league regulations require each
player to wear a jock strap; an athletic
supporter. You have to buy it.” Giggles
could be heard everywhere.
“What’s a jock strap?” I wondered to
nobody but yours truly. It’s one of those
things defining an emerging manhood I
came to find out.
12

Then coach turned to me and broad-
casted for my teammates’ benefit, “Jack-
son, league rules require catchers wear a
cup, too.”
“What’s a cup? And, how does it re-
late to a jock strap?” My quiet investiga-
tion ensued.
In the next day or so, my Mother
took me to a sporting goods store. If you
think shopping for a jock strap and a cup
with your Mother was a 1962 rage,
you’re wrong! So, into the store Mother
and I ventured.
This story now accounts for my first
encounter with an athletic supporter.
Sure, I was like any other soon-to-be 12
year old. I was becoming increasingly cu-
13

rious about my manhood and all its at-
tendant apparatuses. But, it was during
this shopping excursion I discovered
just how important my manhood and its
buddies must be. This wasn’t an option;
the goddamned Frontier Little League
declared by regulation that my package
was so important it had to be protected.
It got worse. My Mother wasn’t
really all that familiar with a cup. She
was just informed concerning the incre-
mental requirement catcher’s be pro-
tected by the unknown device. I could
hear coach’s voice again, “Jackson,
league rules require catches wear a cup,
too.”
14

Mother said, “Let’s get an assistant,
Honey.”
That’s all I needed: assistance from
someone to help me with protecting my
manhood and friends. Mother’s prefer-
ence prevailed. The assistant arrived.
He was probably 5 to 7 years older than
me. He looked me over and turned to
my Mother enquiring, “Yes Ma’am, may
I help you?”
“Yes, please. My son is a little league
catcher and is required to wear a cup
while playing baseball.” Mother said
without a clue as to my crushing embar-
rassment.
Then the asshole started looking at
the location of my manhood. “I think I
15

know what size he needs,” the brilliant
clerk replied.
He walked a few feet down the aisle
and reached up and pulled down a small-
ish box. Of all things, he opened the box
and pulled this grey hard plastic thing
out; it had a ring of white rubber tracing
its edges. I started looking around the
store to make sure no one else was
watching this debacle.
“You want to try this on little fel-
low?” He asked.
“No. It looks all right to me. It
‘ought ta’ fit.” I desperately proclaimed
in my hurry to get to the checkout and
the hell out of there.
16

However, the store clerk had nothing
to do with my desperation. He turned to
Mother and advised, “This requires a
special athletic supporter, Ma’am.” I
glanced down at my clothed manhood as
if to cuss out its now well known
importance. The ordeal wasn’t about to
get over with any time soon.
Fortunately, the clerk took only an-
other step forward and looked at an ar-
ray of different boxes. He again looked
at me; but, not so much at the location
of my manhood this time. “This looks
like it will work,” he said as he took a par-
ticular box off the shelf. Again, against
all my embarrassment, he opened the
box and this dangling conflagration of
17

white material made its appearance; one
for anyone up and down the aisle to
witness.
I could immediately understand the
appropriateness of the term “strap” in la-
beling the contraption; there were two
dancing in symmetry around a mound of
material with snaps on it. Announcing
this particular form of athletic supporter
was uniquely fashioned for holding the
cup; the clerk then took the rubber
rimmed plastic device and inserted it
into the mound of white material and fas-
tened the snaps while announcing in too
loud a voice toward my direction, “See,
you put the cup in here and fasten these
snaps. Then you put it on.” The bastard
18

looked toward my manhood again. If I
was just a wee bit bigger I would’ve
punched the nosy asshole.
Mother then took both items and
said, “Let’s go.” She paid the bill and we
left.
The next time the Tucson Federal
Savings team met for practice, Coach
Carlson asked, “Everyone get their jock
straps? Got ‘em on? Jackson, you
wearin’ that cup?” Fortunately, the
crowded affirmative declaration
drowned out the shaking of my head in
the same direction.
From that day on, Ritchie Jackson,
the Tucson Federal Savings 1962
catcher, had his manhood and friends
19

protected by some inventor’s license. I
never came to a practice or game with-
out it.
In between such events, Mother
made me wash the cupholder myself;
saying, “Ritchie, you have to learn to
take care of your own things.” We’ll just
assume she was referring to keeping the
strap clean.
Summer 1962 seemed unending
both in duration and heat. On those
rare game days where the outcome was
in our favor, Coach Carlson took the en-
tire team to the local Tastee Freeze for
an ice cream cone. Anyone hitting a
home run got a double. But, as I say, it
didn’t seem to be fated by the little
20

league gods and goddesses that 1962
would be my team’s banner year.
The best team in the league was
Dave’s Towing. Everyone knew the rea-
son for their unrivaled success. The
team’s star pitcher was a purported 12
year old who looked like he was 18.
We’d played Dave’s Towing a couple of
times before the season wound down to
a merciful finish. Each time, Tucson
Federal Savings got trounced.
No one could hit that pitcher. He
was so big; he dwarfed the size of the
baseball diamond. His reached closed
the distance to the plate. I’d swear there
was only a three foot distance between
his hand releasing the speeding fastball
21

and home plate. “Who could swing fast
enough to hit it?” was the team’s collec-
tive lament. This pitching behemoth
was an annoyance. He seemed to unilat-
erally ruin everyone’s summer.
Unfortunately for Tucson Federal
Savings, the last game of the season had
us playing Dave’s Towing. Once again
we were doomed to face the behemoth
and his three foot fastball.
You have to understand one thing
about Ritchie Jackson’s little league
career: It was completely lackluster. I
was the worst hitter on the team and al-
ways batted in the ninth position. The
last game of the season brokered no
22

surprise: “Jackson,” Coach Carlson an-
nounced, “Catcher, batting ninth.”
As fate would have it, Tucson Fed-
eral Savings was losing handily to Dave’s
Towing in its last little league game of
the season. Mercifully, the last inning ar-
rived with two outs already registered
for completion. Not so mercifully, yours
truly, Ritchie Jackson, the Tucson Fed-
eral Savings 1962 catcher had to come to
the plate for what was sure to be the last
at-bat of the season. You guessed it; my
manhood protector naturally came
along.
The world closed in; mostly due to
the behemoth’s size. It was the behe-
moth, his brother, Dave’s Towing’s
23

catcher, the umpire, and me. The bat-
ter’s box was already well worn for the
day. I had my head protecting batter’s
helmet on and, for once, I was glad that
damned plastic thing with its rimmed
rubber padding was secure between my
legs.
It seemed the 29 inch baseball bat
shrunk to the size of a matchstick com-
pared to the behemoth’s stature. Every-
one assumed a readiness I did not. It’s
like a train wreck coming at you in slow
motion: You can’t stop it, you can only
endure it.
The behemoth affected his incom-
plete wind-up and threw his right hand
at me like he intended to punch me in
24

the jaw. All of a sudden, a little white
sphere appeared and instantly made a
loud snapping sound as it met the
brother’s mitt. The result was obvious,
“Steeeeeerike One!” bellowed the um-
pire for the crowd’s uproarious
pleasure.
I was glad the first strike was over; re-
lief began to sink in as I realized the sum-
mer and this ordeal were both just about
over. The behemoth was relentless. The
asshole even sported a heavy beard.
“Twelve years old my ass,” the empirical
evidence concluded.
The half wind-up ensued. The same
procedure followed. The fist heading to-
ward my face let go the little sphere at
25

the last. I blinked. Pow! “Steeeeeeerike
Two! The count is now ‘Oh and Two’,”
announced the umpire for the crowd’s
spirituous participation.
“Only one more of those to go,” I
relieved. The behemoth’s catching
brother then got into the act. Ordinar-
ily, all cup-wearing catchers would ex-
hibit informal support for similarly clad
brethren. However, the behemoth’s
brother had a mouth that rivaled his
pitching brother’s stature. I turned to
look him in the eye when he said, “Hey,
buddy!” He condescended to me, “he
puts it in the same place every time. You
still can’t hit it.”
26

I looked at the contrails still linger-
ing from the last two fastballs and sized
up the spot. I took my 29 inch
matchstick and swirled those contrails
to practice the location. My muscle
memory satisfied, I perched the bat up
toward my right shoulder ready for the
behemoth’s final assault.
By now, the half wind-up was sure to
be a registered trademark. The behe-
moth accordingly forecasted hell’s fury
arriving. His right fist hurling toward
my face opened once again; the blurring
baseball appeared a split second before
my swing began. Damn it all, Ritchie
Jackson wasn’t going down without a
27

fight. I swung through those contrails
preceding.
There was a different noise this
time: Whack! I felt a surging thud in
my hands as my arms swung through
the devil’s mandate. I watched the little
white sphere take off for the
stratosphere. All right, maybe some-
thing short of that. Concomitantly, my
peripheral vision caught the entire Tuc-
son Federal Savings team come flying off
their collective asses as the baseball
cleared the outfield fence by two feet.
I knew I hit a home run as my
catcher required manhood protector and
I made the horns of the three bases and
headed toward home plate. My team-
28

mates crowded my arrival. Though we
lost the game, there was much to cele-
brate as the worst hitter on the team was
the only player to hit a home run off the
behemoth the entire season.
That’s it my friends. That’s the entire
story. I will leave the interpretation of
Wisdom’s truth your decipherment as
we part company. I’m sure some of you
are scratching your heads wondering,
“What does buying a cup protector and
hitting the team’s only home run off the
behemoth pitcher have to do with the
beauty of loving a woman?” God, I love
those Greek Philosophers.
29

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Oh and two