I was a weak, skinny kid, which worried Jaybird, the old black man who was my boyhood mentor. “Some day, you’ll have to fight,” he warned. “But the way you are now, you’ll get the tar beat out of you. I’ve got to teach you the lick.”
I ignored his admonition, considering it just another ridiculous adult notion, but he was dead serious, and 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 had. Then, as now, I had almost no use for my right hand; I was a total southpaw, and Jaybird turned that uncommon trait to my advantage.
First, he convinced me that when I got in a scrap, my opponent would likely be right-handed, and since Jaybird was right-handed, he would often throw punches at me when I least expected it, stopping his big black fist inches from my nose. “Drop to your left,” he’d say. “Drop to your left.” His patience rivaled Job’s.
That was lesson one. Lesson two was more difficult, mainly because I was so chicken I fled from my own shadow. Dodging a swing and punching back was not in my game plan: Running 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’ve got to drop to the left and use the hand you know how to use best,” he preached. “When your opponent misses, he will be off balance. Right then, you must reach down with your left as far as you can and aim for his face with all you got.”
Like a man teaching a dog to fetch, he worked and worked with me. In time, his persistence paid off. Instinctively, I’d drop to my left as his punches whooshed by.
It was a balmy Friday afternoon, and the 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 better remember the lick.”
He was right. Now that Brander knew I was afraid of him, he never missed an opportunity 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. Chuckling, he said, “It’s all in knowing the 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)).
