During my growing up years, I was a weak, skinny kid, which worried Jaybird, my mentor and best friend. “Someday, you’ll have to fight,” he warned. “But de way you is now, you’ll get de tar beat out o’ you. I gotta teach you de lick.”
I ignored his admonition, considering it just another ridiculous adult notion, but my mentor was dead serious, and he set about teaching me something I thought I’d never use. How wrong I was.
His was a lesson of compensation, of making up for what I didn’t have by maximizing what I did have. A southpaw, I had almost no use for my right hand, and the old black man was determined to develop that uncommon trait to my advantage.
First, he convinced me that when I got into a scrap, my opponent would likely be right-handed, and since Jaybird was right-handed, he’d often throw punches at me when I least expected them, stopping his big black fist inches from my nose. “Dodge to de left,” he’d say. “Dodge to de left.” His patience rivaled Job’s.
That was lesson one. Lesson two was more difficult, mainly because I was so chicken I ran from my own shadow. Dodging a swing and punching back was not in my game plan; fleeing was.
From childhood on, Jaybird had always fended for himself. A lifetime of self-reliance had imbued him with courage and confidence, and cowardice was anathema to him.
“You gotta dodge to yo’ left and use de hand you know how to use best,” he preached. “When yo’ opponent misses, he’ll be off balance. Right den, you must reach down with your left as far as you can and aim for his face with all yo’ might.”
Like a man teaching a dog to fetch, he worked and worked with me. In time, his persistence paid off. Instinctively, I’d dodge to my left as his punches whooshed by.
It was a balmy Friday afternoon, and the spring breeze through the window felt good as the school bus carried us home for the weekend. Suddenly, Brander, the school bully, snatched my favorite cap and flung it out the window … with his right hand.
“What you gonna do, Skinny?” he taunted. I sat trembling, not daring to look up. Later, when I told Jaybird, he grunted, “He ain’t through. You betta remember de lick.”
He was right. Now that Brander knew I was afraid of him, he never missed opportunities to shame me in front of our classmates. Eventually, anger supplanted fear, and I began to hate him.
Y’all know the rest of the story. Finally, I stood my ground, Brander took his swing, and I left him writhing on the playground, holding his face and bawling like the coward all bullies really are.
After school, I raced to Jaybird’s house, savoring each detail of my victory as I described it to him.
Smiling proudly, he said, “It’s all in knowin’ de lick.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
