The Fleet-Footed Fastest Fighting Cub

During my college teaching career, experience— always the best teacher — taught me to identify abilities of students whose attitude held them back and do all possible to maximize those abilities. Although challenging, for some it was a life-changing experience. I know. It happened to me in 1961. In high school, I wanted to play football, but weighed only 97 pounds. Looking at the other players convinced me I was doomed to be a bench warmer. Their uniforms fit well, but Mama had to cut swatches from my jersey until it fit over the shoulder pads and tapered down my rail-thin torso. She sewed loops on the pant’s top so that a tight belt would prevent their falling to my knees. The helmet was beyond her skills, and after being tackled in practice I often arose looking through one of the ear holes.

"Y’all make a hole for him, and he’s gone. Nobody on the other team will catch him”

Game after game, I waited for the call that never came, but my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird, always a source of encouragement, promised that my chance would come, and that my best asset wasn’t size, but one just as valuable: speed. Coach Ruscoe knew how badly I wanted to play, and in a team meeting before one of our toughest games, he said, “Gentlemen, if we’re holding our own late in the game against the Rolling Fork Colonels, Reed will be at left half back.” The team was stunned; I knew what they thought: One of our most important games, in front of a hometown crowd, and Coach will play Reed? Reading their minds, Coach continued. “Men, who is your fastest teammate? Reed. He weighs slightly more than air, has strong legs, can zigzag like a jackrabbit, and is fast as a speeding bullet.

The Leland Fighting Cubs fought the Rolling Fork Colonels to a 14-14 tie at halftime, a score unchanged by the third quarter’s end. When play resumed, Coach roared, “Reed — in at halfback.” His confidence provided all the courage I needed. Quarterback “Brick” Battson called T-24, a straight-up-the-middle play, and reiterated Coach’s words: “Make a hole for our fleet-footed fastest fighting cub, and he’s gone.” When I looked at the linemen, they nodded. “We’ll do our part, Reed; you do yours.” They did, I did. The hole was wide, and fifty yards of open field lay before me. When I crossed the goal line and the referee raised both arms, the fans and my teammates went berserk. Ecstatic, I ran off the field with the football, and the referee had to chase me down to retrieve it. What Coach and Jaybird taught me was a life lesson that I used to bring out the best in students who weren’t the smartest, but who possessed some aptitude to make up for the shortfall. I dealt with them the way Coach dealt with his players, and I’ve never forgotten what he called me: the fleet-footed fastest fighting cub.