Bunt

As a Little League baseball player, when I stepped to the plate, bunting was the last thing on my mind. Instead I focused on slugging the ball over the outfield fence. A bunt, I thought, was an insult to my Louisville Slugger bat. “You ain’t big enough or strong enough yet to hit homeruns,” my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird said. “That will come someday. Right now, you need to get good at what you can do. Become the team’s best bunter; Coach Coleman will notice, and he’ll play you more.”

The old black man loved baseball, and understood the game inside and out. His strategy would’ve served battle commanders well: Never abandon the fundamentals; use the mind first, the body second; avoid what is strong, attack what is weak; never doubt that doing little things right makes big things happen. When we weren’t working in the fields of my father’s Mississippi Delta farm, Jaybird and I were in his backyard, practicing baseball. In time, his coaching paid off. I became as good at bunting as I dreamed of being at slamming homers. As Jaybird predicted, the coach noticed. If a runner made it to first before my turn at bat, he counted on me to advance him to second. And, as my mentor also predicted, coach began signaling bunt to me even when nobody was on base. “Now that you are a good bunter, use what else you’re good at — running,” Jaybird said. “Coach Coleman knows what I know: As a base runner, you are jackrabbit fast, and when you cross home, your score is worth as much as anybody else’s, so if bunting is likely to get you on base, he’ll signal bunt. “But don’t signal your intentions when you step into the batter’s box. Wind up like you’ll swing with all your might, and just when the pitcher is about to let fly, square away to bunt. You’ll catch the fielders on their heels, and before they can get to the bunted ball, you’ll be safe at first.” I never developed into a consistent long-ball hitter, but Jaybird noticed that my hand-eye coordination and upper body strength were improving, and turned those developing assets into a new level of strategy. Because opposing teams knew I always bunted, the fielders edged in when I stepped to the plate. Noticing this, Jaybird taught me to give the appearance of bunting but to swing hard at the ball instead. Sometimes I connected; sometimes I didn’t, but when I did, I had a chance at a single or double, and sometimes a homer. The many lessons that wise old man taught me translated into advantages when I reached adulthood and stepped onto the playing field of life. I remind myself that everyday “bunts” don’t provide instant success, but they do help in progressing toward goals. When situations offer the possibility of gain, my first option isn’t to go for the long ball; instead I do what Jaybird taught me: Bunt.