Go For The Long Ball

When I batted in Little League baseball, bunting was the last thing on my mind. I focused on slugging the ball over the outfield fence. A bunt, I thought, insulted my Louisville Slugger bat. My boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird took me to games, and watching in disappointment when I struck out, told me that I wasn’t big enough or strong enough yet to hit homeruns. “That will come someday,” he said. “Right now, get good at what you can do — become the team’s best bunter; Coach Coleman will notice, and play you more.” A baseball lover all his life, the old black man understood the game inside and out. His strategy would have 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 well makes big things happen.” When we weren’t working in the fields on Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm, he 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.

I don’t always bunt; instead I do what Jaybird taught me: Go for the long ball

As Jaybird predicted, 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’re bunting well, use what else you can do well — running,” Jaybird said. “Coach knows what I know: You’re 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’re in the batter’s box. Show intentions of swinging away, and 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 set about developing those assets into a new level of strategy. Because opposing players, including outfielders, had begun to suspect that I would bunt, they edged in toward the infield 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 advantage when I reached adulthood and stepped onto the playing field of life. I know now that “bunts” don’t provide instant success, but they do help in the progression toward bigger goals. When situations offer the possibility of gain, I don’t always bunt; instead I do what Jaybird taught me: Go for the long ball.