The Mark of Cain

 

You often hear folks say that they have a Love-Hate-Relationship with something or someone?  You know what I’m talking about.  Well, all of my life I have never felt the “Love-part” when it came to jockstraps.  Only hate and my hatred runs so deep that I find it difficult to refer to them by their Christian name of Athletic Supporter.  

My hatred started with confusion in the 3^rd grade when we were required to wear them to play organized baseball.  My Mom had to take me to the store to get one and I didn’t really know what we had gone to pick up.  She called it an athletic supporter so I was expecting something cool like a new baseball glove or a hat or something.  I had never heard of an athletic supporter and up until that point in my life “jock strap” was just a derogatory phrase we used when we needed something bad to call someone.  It was akin to calling somebody a butt-wipe.  Just a couple of words that, together, sounded funny and were used to describe somebody you didn’t like.   

 We started at Rhodes Department Store in University Village which was our go-to at the time for most needs but Rhodes wasn’t a giant in team sports.  They didn’t carry serious sporting goods, but they did have a Scouting Department where my Cub Scout Uniform and badges had come from.  Mother must have figured that scouts might find athletic supporters useful for their activities like selling Clamorama tickets, practicing knot tying and making plaques of the scout oath out of alphabet pasta.  Whatever it was it had something to do with playing baseball so I was all in. 

I’m the “little feller” with the tight jockstrap grimacing in the front row

We approached a dowdy sales lady who was folding scarves and Mother asked her if they carried athletic supporters.  The lady looked surprised and smiled down at me and said “Now who would be needing that?  Is this your son?  Is it for him?  How cute.  I don’t think they come that small but I’ll check with Mr. Mosley” and with that she waddled off.  I was really confused now and accustomed to taking the smallest size of everything but I was sensitive to people calling me small.  It was true that I was embarrassingly short and hated being reminded of the fact.  It had been the cause of many fights in my short life and I was toying with the idea of punching that lady out.  

Mrs. Dowdy returned with Mr. Mosley who was a gangly man dressed in brown rumpled slacks, a wrinkled, soup-stained striped shirt and a crooked necktie.  He had used one of those skinny half-knots guaranteed to crook a tie that was favored by those who couldn’t master the Windsor Knot.  I mean, I was just a third grader, but I knew how to tie a Windsor Knot and this was the father of one of my classmates, Howie, who I considered a semi-butt-wipe.  By his appearance and his offspring I took Mr. Mosley as someone who had, no doubt, been called “butt-wipe” many times in his life, but what did I know?  He looked down at me and laughed saying “What does this little feller need a jockstrap for”? 

Now bear in mind that as far as I knew a “jockstrap” was just a derogatory name and he had also called me little.  He considered me a little-jockstrap and he had said it out loud.  That took me right to the boiling point and I was figuring that I could put him down quickly by punching him squarely in his nuts which happened to be at the perfect height for me to administer a kill shot.  With him down I would turn on the “Dowdy Scarf Lady” who was snickering at me and the whole situation.  Neither one had any idea who they were messing with.  Luckily for both of them Mother knew and when I tensed and clenched my fists she put her hand firmly on my shoulder to hold me back.  Then Mr. Ass-wipe said, “Actually we do have one just his size” and with that he disappeared into the back room which saved him from a serious beating. 

When he returned, he had this small flat box with an “Ace” logo and a photo of the contents.  Since I was expecting a glove or a hat this added to my confusion.  Mr. Butt-wipe took it out of the box and held it up for all to see before handing it to me.  Working without any clues my best guess was that it was either supposed to go around my waist or over my head.  Head gear, most likely, a nose guard perhaps, but which way was it worn and for what purpose?  I had never seen a baseball player with one on his head but thought it possible that it attached to the inside of a hat, but why?  By the grace of God, I hesitated before pulling it over my head and when Mr. Mosley told me to just pull it on over my jeans that sort of answered the question about where it was worn.  It was obvious that this thing was going to be too big, but Mother nodded at me signifying that I should put it on so I went into a dressing room and pondered which way it was worn.  Guard to the front or guard to the back?  My life was so complicated.

Finally, I stepped out on the salesfloor to the accompaniment of much snickering.  We had drawn the attention of other shoppers who were now smiling at me as well.  Mr. Mosley laughed out loud.  Picture a tiny third grader with a big floppy jockstrap hanging loosely over his jeans.  At least I had gotten it on with the “guard” facing forward.  I mean, there were no instructions on the box and I really didn’t know.  I had donned it with a 50/50 chance of success and had just gotten lucky.