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The .45-52 Zulu Gun
Updated on June 26, 2020
I pitched fastpitch softball five times a week all over Southern California for over twenty years.
I pitched in a Sunday morning league in East LA at Evergreen Park on the corner of 4th and Evergreen in 1974 and 1975 and then starting in 1976, the better players, for miles around, started playing in Watts at Hoover Park on the corner of Manchester and Hoover just west of the Harbor Freeway.
Hoover Park was large enough that four fastpitch games could be played at the same time on diamonds located at all four corners of the park. All of the games started at 10 am and then after the games, most of us gathered around under some trees on the first base side of the diamond located on the northwest corner of the park. An enterprising man, with the help of his teenage children, sold barbecued chicken, hot links, ribs, and a variety of cold drinks to wash it all down.
Most of the guys stayed around for a while and discussed what happened at the games on the other diamonds. The best part was all the joking and storytelling. Ballplayers, fans, and old-timers all joined in to have a good time. It was great!
One older gentleman used to come to the games dressed in a suit. I guessed that he was stopping by after church. He would stand behind the backstop and watch whatever game was being played on the northwest diamond with some of his older friends and then stay for the storytelling afterward. I looked forward to the times when he would show up. I enjoyed kidding with him and listening to his stories.
One time he told me a funny story about the .45-52 Zulu gun. I couldn’t remember the whole thing. I would try to repeat it but couldn't remember all the little parts of it and begged for him to help me with a word or two but he would never give me any help. The next time I saw him, I would pester him to tell me again about the .45-52 Zulu gun. It would just drive me nuts because he would only tell it one time and then that would be it. He would never repeat it. He would always say, “I’ll tell it to you again the next time I see you.”
Sometimes, I wouldn’t see him for months at a time and I used to worry that I might never see him again. I put a small cassette tape recorder in a zip-lock bag to keep out the dust and began to always carry it in my game bag.
Finally, in 1982, I saw him for the last time and this time I told him that I wasn’t going to let him go without him telling me about the .45-52 Zulu gun. I showed him the tape recorder and told him that I had a C-90 cassette in it.
After some barbecue, he said, “Let’s take a walk.” I let him do all the talking as we walked away from all the others and continued walking down the left field line toward the other diamond on the northeast corner of the park which was almost deserted by then. I sensed that he just wanted to talk. He talked about his life and an assortment of topics. We quit walking and sat in the stands at the other diamond and just talked about ball playing and life in general.
When the first side of the tape ran out, I flipped it over to the other side. We talked for a while longer and then he said, “Before your tape runs out, I’d better tell you about the .45-52 Zulu gun.” We started walking back to join the others when he began to tell the story and, as any good storyteller would do, he took his time.
He spoke slowly with his gravelly voice: “I want to tell you about the .45-52 Zulu gun. It’s the most amazing gun you’ll ever see. You’d have to see it to believe it. It’s the .45-52 Zulu gun built upon an automatic frame. It'll shoot nine times before you can cock it and ten times before you can stop it. If you hold it on the left it says, "If you hold me square, I'll shoot him fair." If you hold it on the right it says, "If you hold me level, I'll shoot the Devil." Then he moved his old, bony hand back and forth past my ear in a snake-like fashion when he said, "It shoots the bewitching cannonball. If it goes by and misses you, it'll back right up and hit you. Don't allow you no chance at all!"
He was a real gentleman and I miss him.
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