When my 10-year-old son Jonathan joined his baseball team last year, he was a true rookie. His coach mentioned a guy named Papa Jack—said if we ever wanted hitting lessons, he was the one to see. Jonathan was eager to level up his swing, so we found our way to a small brick warehouse across town, not really knowing what to expect.
There was a small sign out front. Nothing fancy. A man with a smile in his voice welcomed us inside.
“Ron Jackson,” he said, extending his hand. “But everybody calls me Papa Jack.”
He led Jonathan into the batting cage, and they got right to work. He lined up his knuckles and his feet, showed him how to “dance a little bit” in his stance, and instructed him to swing the bat—knob first—from point A to point B. Before each swing, he gave tiny, direct corrections that somehow made everything click.
Then, between swings, he paused.
“Look at me, Jonathan,” he said. “And repeat after me: Discipline… means doing things correctly every time.”
They said it together, like a mantra.
I found myself watching—curious, impressed by his depth of knowledge and coaching presence.
Little did we know, Papa Jack has spent over 50 years in professional baseball. He played in the Major Leagues, coached some of the most legendary hitters in the game, and was part of the greatest comeback story in baseball history. Over time, we started learning his story, bit by bit.
A few lessons in, he brought his World Series ring to show the kids. He let Jonathan hold it and took pictures with them, like they were teammates. Another time, he casually mentioned that he was flying out to Las Vegas. Turns out he was going to be honored nationally for his work with inner-city youth.
The more I learned about Papa Jack, the more I wanted to know.
The story starts right here in Birmingham, where he was born as the fifth of 14 children to Thomas and Mary Jackson—a brick mason and a loving mother who instilled faith and discipline in their children.
“Our daddy taught us to work,” he said. “He laid bricks, and we laid bricks too. We didn’t have weights back then,” he added with a laugh. “Our weights were bricks.”
He credits those early days for giving the Jackson kids an edge. Several of his siblings went on to play college or professional sports, including brother Kenny, who was drafted by the White Sox, and Demetrius, who played for the Washington Redskins. His baby brother played baseball at BYU. His sisters were standouts in Birmingham softball leagues. Athleticism runs through the family tree, but grit runs deeper.
“We didn’t just learn how to swing. We learned how to show up. Mental toughness, discipline, perseverance... all that starts before you even pick up a bat.”
By the time he graduated from Birmingham’s Wenonah High School, Papa Jack had football scholarships on the table. But after praying on it, he knew in his gut what he wanted: to go to the major leagues. He was selected in the second round of the 1971 draft by the California Angels and went on to spend a decade in the Major Leagues, playing for the Angels, Twins, Tigers, and Orioles.
But it was his second act as a coach that would shape his legacy.
Papa Jack became one of the most respected coaches in Major League baseball—renowned in hitting, working with organizations like the White Sox, Brewers, Dodgers, Astros, and—most famously—the Boston Red Sox. In 2003, he was named BoSox Man of the Year, an honor recognizing both his on-field impact and his contributions to the community. In 2004, he helped lead the Red Sox to their first World Series win in 86 years. Along the way, he helped David Ortiz out of a batting slump.
During a 2006 game, Ortiz—“Big Papi”—wasn’t feeling like himself. Frustrated, he retreated to the clubhouse. Papa Jack, reviewing video footage, saw something and called for Ortiz to come down to the cage.
“What do you see?” Ortiz asked.
Papa Jack pointed it out—his hands were late. His posture had shifted.
“You remember what we used to do?” Papa Jack said, demonstrating the adjustment.
Ortiz took a few more swings. “That’s it!” he said, then pointed at Papa Jack on his way to the dugout. “That’s why you’re the best!”
In his next at-bat, Ortiz stepped up to the plate and hit a massive home run, tying Jimmie Foxx’s single-season home run record. The time after that, he sent another ball over the fence to break it. After rounding the bases, he walked straight to Papa Jack and handed him his bat.
It’s still proudly displayed in Papa Jack’s home today.
After his wildly successful career in the majors, doors were open everywhere. But Papa Jack prayed about what to do next.
“God told me, ‘Go home and get my children off the street,’” he said.
So he came home to Birmingham. With a mission.
Through his nonprofit, the Ron “Papa Jack” Jackson Baseball Foundation, and the Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities (RBI) program, he’s mentored thousands of young athletes—many from underserved neighborhoods. He’s taken them to showcases, connected them to college opportunities, and helped shape lives both on and off the field.
He’s guided players through the Breakthrough Series and the Hank Aaron Invitational. Michael Harris II of the Atlanta Braves came through that program, along with Lawrence Butler of the Oakland A’s. Plenty more are knocking on the door of the majors.
“It takes a village to raise a ballplayer,” he explained. “You’ve got to be patient,” he told me. “These kids—man, they’re babies. Parents think they’re headed to the big leagues already. But it’s a process. You have to break things down and teach them step by step. Not just in baseball. In life.”
But ask him what moment he’s proudest of, and he won’t name a championship ring or a batting record. He’ll take you to a sunny day at Fenway Park.
“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said.
During his time with the Red Sox, CBS sponsored a summer program for children with disabilities, and Papa Jack was one of the coaches who arrived early to work with them—kids in wheelchairs, kids with Down syndrome—all of them wide-eyed under the shadow of the Green Monster.
“I walked around the outfield,” he said, his voice softening, “with two little girls with Down syndrome, one on each arm.”
He paused, smiling at the memory. “We were just out there under that big wall. They were so sweet, going back and forth saying, ‘Papa Jack’s mine!’ ‘No, Papa Jack’s mine!’”
He shook his head. “Man, I have chills now just thinking about it,” he told me. “That right there was the biggest highlight of my whole career.”
After Jonathan’s lesson, Papa Jack called my younger son—my wild one—and handed him a bat nearly as big as he was.
He knelt beside him, adjusted his feet, lined up his knuckles, and showed him where to look.
In just a few minutes, Joseph went from wildly swinging the bat like he was about to break something to sending the ball flying clear across the room.
Then Papa Jack crouched beside him and said, “Now look me in the eye. What did you learn?”
Joseph stopped wiggling, looked straight at him, and said, “Watch the ball. Turn my back knee.”
I just stood there, stunned. This kid is three years old—and a rascal at that. That’s the magic of Papa Jack.
“Sports prepare you for whatever you’re going to do in life,” he said, walking us to the car. “We’re here to teach kids life skills. How to get along with your fellow man. How to work through something when it’s hard. How to do things the right way.”
Before we pulled away, he handed each of the kids a signed baseball card. They haven’t stopped smiling since.
I left thinking, Papa Jack is a legend. The man coached Frank Thomas. He could be anywhere, doing anything right now.
But the story continues right where it started—here in Birmingham, Alabama, where Papa Jack spends his days out on a field or in an inconspicuous warehouse, passing on decades of baseball wisdom, life lessons, and a love of the game to rookies like mine.
“God told me, ‘Go home and get my children off the street.’”
“We’re here to teach kids life skills. How to get along with your fellow man. How to work through something when it’s hard. How to do things the right way.”