Safe at Home

“Call me a boy, not a man,” specifies Arthur Talbot Carrillo, who has a teddy bear on his bed, a Little League plaque on the wall and a 5 o’clock shadow spreading across his face.

Semantics are important to Carrillo, who 58 years ago was born developmentally disabled. Mentally retarded, he was called then.

His brain was deprived of oxygen during a difficult birth that occurred two months’ prematurely. He refers to the consequences, which include impaired hearing, speech and coordination, as “my difficulty,” but he summarizes their effect with ease.

“I don’t feel like I’m 58,” he says, shrugging. “I feel like a boy. I am just a boy. I don’t like to be called a man. I like to be called a boy. It makes me feel good.”

For more than half a century, most people have simply called him Skipper. In Laguna Beach, where he has lived for 34 years, it’s one of the best-known names in town.

“When they call me that, it’s a home run--touch ‘em all!” says Skipper, unspooling a wide and crooked smile. “If they call me Skipper or Mr. Uniform or Ballplayer, it’s all a home run.”

As always, Skipper is wearing a baseball cap and a sports-related outfit. In this case, it’s a sweatsuit from Laguna Beach High School, not far from the small and spotless ocean-view home where he lives.

“Welcome to my ballpark,” he says when a visitor arrives at his front door. “Welcome to beautiful Wrigley Field.”

Skipper is an immaculate housekeeper and a fascinating interior decorator. The furnishings are mostly the lovingly maintained leftovers from his parents, both dead for years, who bequeathed him the house and established the trust fund that provides his monthly allowance.

But the accouterments have the flavor of a sports bar--where the favorite flavor is root beer.

The living-room lamps are fashioned from classic wooden baseball bats. The bedroom is a time capsule of a 1950s kid, authentic down to the twin bed, baseball pennants, autographed photo of Jerry Lewis and lamps made out of football helmets.

Skipper calls it his dugout, and so does a carved wooden sign hanging over the door. The house is laden with photos and portraits of athletes and teams, awards from schools and civic groups. One photo of his name in lights on the Big A scoreboard at Anaheim Stadium reveals that Skipper was Laguna Beach’s Citizen of the Year in 1975.

“And there’s a picture of my mother, Don Drysdale,” says Skipper, pointing to a framed silhouette of a middle-aged woman. “She died 13 years ago on St. Patrick’s Day. I miss Don very much.”

Skipper catches the second look and cuts off the question.

“I named my mother after Don Drysdale,” he explains. “Don Drysdale is my all-time favorite ballplayer. I called my mother Don Drysdale for many years, and she was very honored.”

So was the real Don Drysdale, the late Dodgers pitcher, who Skipper met a few times in the mid-1970s.

“At first, Don Drysdale--not my mother, but the pitcher--was very embarrassed when I told him I named my mother after him,” Skipper says, smiling at the memory, “but I think he understood.”

*

Skipper called his father, who died in 1966, The Coach.

“He got me interested in sports, you know,” Skipper says. “He used to play semipro ball. My dad gave me a baseball when I was 3 years old. He took me to my first baseball game. It was supposed to be the Hollywood Stars at Gilmore Field, but they were out of town, so we wound up at beautiful Wrigley Field, at 42nd and Avalon, the home of the L.A. Angels.

“That was the most beautiful ballpark. Wrigley Field was my all-time favorite. I think what they did with beautiful Wrigley Field is they tore it down and made it into a medical parking lot. But there is still one in Chicago.”

Skipper enjoys living alone, though he admits he doesn’t accomplish it by himself. His sister, a Christian missionary in Japan, helps manage his allowance, a cousin checks up on him, and he knows nearly everybody in Laguna Beach.

“It’s wonderful here, wonderful,” he says. “I get to keep my ballpark clean. I have more independence, you know? I get up in the morning, hit the showers, go have breakfast, come back, do some blocking and go out on passes. Sometimes I go shopping, go to a movie. But now it’s a wild pitch because the movie prices are ridiculous--they cost too much Willie Mays.”

Over the years, Skipper’s conversation has become saturated with euphemistic sports jargon, history, cliches and heroes. He calls his home his ballpark. His friends are his teammates. His plans are his lineup card. Running an errand is going out for a pass. Working is blocking. Wasting time is delay of game or three seconds in the key. Attempting something is stepping up to the plate. Determination is crowding the plate. Falling short is a strike. A good try is a line-drive out. A mistake is a wild pitch. Being called safe is good, being called out is bad. It goes on and on. Most of the terms are self-explanatory, Skipper says, if you use your batting helmet.

But not all of them. Skipper calls money . . . Willie Mays?

“I’ll tell you why. Willie Mays used to be a great ballplayer. He was famous for hitting home runs, but really he could do almost everything. He was very fast. When he didn’t hit a home run, a lot of times the opposing pitchers didn’t pay attention to Willie Mays when he was on base. Then he would surprise them and steal a lot of bases. Well, that’s the way money does. If you don’t watch your money, it will steal bases on you.”

*

Skipper is devoted to the students at Laguna Beach High School, where he is a volunteer and booster.

During baseball season, he operates the scoreboard and serves as batboy. During football games, he works the down box. For 27 years, he was the athletic equipment manager.

“I retired from the equipment job a couple of years ago,” he says, laughing. “I’d had enough--and I don’t miss it. The more you do, the more they expect you to do.”

The baseball field at Laguna Beach High is named after him--Skipper Carrillo Field.

Skipper’s own athletic career, however, was limited.

“I never had the chance to be on a real Little League team. I was handicapped,” he says. “I got to play sometimes when one team was so far behind, when they were out of it and they were down at the bottom of the league and the season was almost over. And, boy, I stole home plate once. I stole home plate on a wild pitch. And I made a double.

“It was a disappointment, but I look at it this way--when you have people love you and when you have people want to be your friend, you always find ways to be the batboy, to be the scorekeeper. I umpired third base for 33 years in Little League and Babe Ruth League and one time in American Legion. I made some bad calls, but nobody ever yelled at me, I think because they liked me.”

When Skipper goes out for dressy occasions--his cousin’s recent wedding, for example--he selects what he wears from a nearly complete collection of Major League baseball uniforms.

“That’s why they call me Mr. Uniform; I’m not a coat-and-tie kind of boy,” Skipper confides, turning around to reveal “MR. UNIFORM” in iron-on letters across the back of his jacket. “But, especially, I like to be called Ballplayer because I always want to be a ballplayer. I always want to be a good ballplayer and a good boy.”

Good ballplayer and good boy are interchangeable, says Skipper, and they are the foundation of his personal philosophy--not to mention his vocabulary.

“I don’t mean to come in spikes high,” Skipper says, concerned he might offend, “but I like my language better than the adult talk. Adult talk is nice for adult people but not for a boy like me. For a ballplayer like me, life is like a game. Sports is my language.”

But Skipper is not absently imitating those who sprinkle their language with the metaphors of sports. He takes the ethics of sportsmanship to heart.

“It takes a lot to be a good ballplayer, but mostly you have to have good judgment,” Skipper observes. “You have to make the right call, throw to the right base. You have to have teamwork--you know, for the double play and for spirit. You have to practice every day.”

Skipper came to terms with the world through the terminology of sports, and he remains grateful for the insight.

“When I was little, there was always something I didn’t understand about the adult talk, so my dad said everything in sports. Like, time to eat is time to fill the bases--your tummy is the bases. When it’s time to go to bed, it’s time to hit the dugout. When you’re doing good things, you’re knocking home runs, touchdowns and baskets. And when it’s a lovely day, I always say, “Have a home-run day!”

Not every day has been.

“There was one scary time. When Don passed away, all my friends in Laguna Beach said, “You’re not going to leave us?” It just so happened I had the good Lord with me. He made it possible for me to stay. He and my sister and my friends made it possible. So I have a lot of blockers.”

Skipper, who is a regular at nearby St. Catherine Catholic Church, sometimes doesn’t sound very much like the boy he insists he is.

Sometimes he doesn’t sound as though he has the disabilities others have diagnosed him with. Then again, who is to say other children wouldn’t be as insightful with 58 years of experience? And Skipper has had the benefit of special schooling, the love and acceptance of family and friends and inclusion in society.

*

Gary Green, a professor of special education at Cal State Long Beach, has known Skipper for years. They’re neighbors in Laguna Beach. Once a semester, Skipper goes to work with Green and speaks to classes filled with students studying to be teachers.

“I consider Skipper to be pretty unique,” Green says. “He grew up during a time when people with his disability were segregated from the rest of society, committed to institutions and kept there all their lives. How many people his age with his disability do we see functioning in society?

“But Skipper’s parents had attitudes unusual for their time. They saw the person first and the disability second. They integrated their son his entire life. The results are incredible. Skipper is able to live on his own. He has his limits, and he is very good about knowing what he can and can’t do. But somewhere he picked up tremendous self-image and confidence. He’s not afraid to walk up to people and say hello.”

That’s how Skipper met Green, whom he now calls The Big Green or Tommy Maddox--the latter because Tommy Maddox was a UCLA quarterback and Green is a UCLA football fan.

“I introduced myself to The Big Green, and I don’t know how to tell you this, but I was kind of choking up on the bat, to make contact with the ball,” says Skipper. “How are you going to make contact with the ball if you don’t ask? So I stepped up to the plate. Even if I hit a line drive at somebody, at least I made contact. They could have called me out, they could have called me safe. So I stepped up to the plate and asked, ‘Could I ask you a little favor?’ And The Big Green said, ‘Sure.’

“ ‘I said, “If I pay my way, could I please go to the UCLA game?’ And right away he called me safe. Home run. So we’ve gone lots of times. See, but if I hadn’t asked, then what? Then I don’t get off the bench.”

*

Skipper pauses for a moment when he’s asked to consider how his life might have turned out if his father had not taught him his special language and what it means to be a ballplayer.

“Oh, boy, that’s a good pitch, a good pitch. Things would have been a lot different, a lot different. My father wanted to give me a chance to see what I could do. My dear mother, Don, she is a beautiful woman, but she wanted to protect me. Which I’m glad she did. They both did. But my father wanted me to try baseball.

“I’ll never forget my first baseball game. I remember when I caught my first foul ball. I got to practice with an American Legion team one time. I got hit in the head and I got hit in the eye a couple of times. I couldn’t see the ball very good. I was playing third base and I got hit in the throat. But I still played. I still loved baseball. I couldn’t hit the ball too well, but boy I could run. I could run pretty good.”