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 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.”
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.”
Skipper enjoys living alone, although 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 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. His 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, on a wild pitch. And I made a double.
“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.”
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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. 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 sometimes doesn’t sound very much like the boy he insists he is.
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.
“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,” Skipper says. “How are you going to make contact with the ball if you don’t ask? 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.”
(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)
Right on the Willie Mays Perhaps Southern California’s most avid sports fan, Skipper Carrillo has a vocabulary taken from the playing field. Some examples:
Batting helmet: head
Ballpark: home
Blockers: supporters
Blocking: work
Delay of game: wasted time
Hit the dugout: go to bed
Home run: a success
Strike: a failure
Teammates: friends
Step up to the plate: take a chance
Wild pitch: a mistake
Willie Mays: money