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.  

When Mrs. Dowdy was finally able to control herself she said: “Here, I found an XXX-Small.  Try this one without your jeans on”.  Oh my God.  A triple extra small and she said it loud enough for everyone on the first floor to hear.  What could possibly be more humiliating?  Those were fighting words and there was going to be blood but before I could spring Mother gripped my shoulder and told me to go into the changing room.  I hesitated but walked in. 

I was equal parts humiliated and furious.  If Mother hadn’t stopped me, I would have committed some horrific and unlawful violent act.  Outside the dressing room the Muzak droned on mingling with the chatter of shoppers as well as with the chuckles of Mr. Butt-wipe and Dowdy Scarf Lady.  I was so lost in pondering homicide while pulling the XXX-Small on over my underwear that I failed to note that the fit was perfect. 

I had a great need to express how I had been made to feel but if I talked in a disrespectful manner to an adult my mother would have grounded me for a week and there was a good chance that I would experience the sting of my Dad’s belt.  Disrespecting your elders was a felony in our family. 

I had to do something to let them know how I felt, and it was Mother’s Navy Bean Soup that gave me my voice for expression and allowed me to force out what may have been the loudest fart that the world had ever heard.  It was so loud, in fact, that I was shocked.  As a grade school boy I knew loud farts and this one did my screaming for me.  The chatter and laughter from outside the dressing room immediately ceased leaving only the numbing drone of the Muzak.  Exiting the dressing room I tossed the jockstrap to the scowling but silent Mrs. Dowdy and kept walking towards the door.  She made a point of not catching it but was not agile enough to get out of its way and it was a perfect headshot.  I heard Mother say “Well, I guess we’ll have to take that one”. 

We didn’t speak on the way home but at least I wasn’t grounded and Howie would never suspect that the regular beatings that I subjected him to through grade school were retaliation for his father’s lack of customer service skills.  Lucky for me that farting loudly in public was only a misdemeanor in our household.

I never did see the point of a jockstrap during my Little League career.  It’s true that when used with a cup it would protect against potential damage caused by a bad-hop grounder or being struck by an inside pitch but my grade school rationale argued that bad-hops were solved with improved fielding skills and anyone who turned to face an inside pitch instead of turning away simply wasn’t cut out for sports.  We were only asked on our first day of the season if we had them on so after that I left it at home in my drawer. As far as I was concerned a third grader needed a jock strap like a dead man needed an overcoat.  

In Junior High they were required for gym class so after a semester of that I found a way to avoid gym class altogether.  Jockstraps weren’t required for playing the French Horn in Orchestra and that replaced gym in my schedule.  Score!

 High School brought them back into my life, though, as they were required to be worn every day in PE.  At the beginning of class our PE coach would have us line up at attention prior to calisthenics and would walk behind us with his paddle in hand.  We were required to pull a leg band from our jock down out of our gym shorts and let it snap back into place when he walked past.  The coaches didn’t have to look, they just listened and if the sound they heard wasn’t crisp enough to make skin sting they would stop and perform an inspection.  They could easily detect the inauthentic sound made by some reprobate attempting to pass off the anemic snap made by the elastic leg band of their tighty-whiteys to that of a tight-fitting jockstrap.  If found without support the offender would be ordered to bend-and-reach and receive a swat. 

There was this one guy I remember, Jack, who was really talented at mimicking voices, imitating animal sounds, ventriloquism, beatboxing, the works.  I don’t know if he practiced it beforehand or just left his jockstrap at home but Jack attempted to mimic the sound of a leg band snapping against skin but his plan broke down when he choked on his chewing gum and made a croaking sound instead of a loud snap.  He might have pulled it off if he hadn’t been chewing gum and that was another thing. 

That stopped Coach Gary in his tracks, and he said “Bend-and-reach, Squirrel.  You get three for that.  One for not wearing protection, one for trying to lie to me and one for chewing gum in class.”  Jack didn’t try that again. 

 It had been 5 ½ decades since I had gotten a swat, thought about Jack or worn a jockstrap.  Things were going along just fine until last Christmas when I had hernia surgery.  Waking up in post-op I was feeling so very, very, very good.  I was covered up with that warm air blanket and the drugs were working just fine, thank you very much. 

I felt my feet being massaged which was something I hadn’t counted on.  It was such a fine sensation.  “Post-op is good!”

Then my ankles and calves.  “Oh!  Post-op is very good!” 

Then my calves and knees.  “I like post-op.  It’s the best!”

When the massage got to my thighs, I had to see what was going on.  I opened my eyes and was shocked to see the unfamiliar eyes of a nurse behind a surgical mask just two feet away.  She stopped abruptly sensing my confusion, I suppose, and said, “I’m sorry”.

Dropping my eyes lower I tried to focus on something around my thighs that she had been busy with.  It didn’t make sense to me.  Damn drugs.  What’s going on?  Finally, the realization of what it was came to me along with the grim memories of childhood that flooded me with anger and resentment. 

 I remember saying to her: “For fucks sake!  A jockstrap?  You are making me wear a jockstrap?” 

With that the nurse stood up, apologized again, and let me manage on my own.  As I laid there looking at that strangely twisted and truncated garment around my legs I thought of the Book of Genesis where “The Lord made Cain a wanderer and a fugitive over the earth, but set a mark upon him,……as wanderers must remain upon the earth, until their countenance be filled with shame.”

Accepting my lot I pulled the Mark of Cain up into place and meekly asked if I could please go home. 

What a way to kill a fine buzz.