I was a skinny, weak, shy, cowardly kid, which worried Jaybird, the beloved old black man who was my mentor and best friend. One day as we sat on his front porch enjoying cold buttermilk filled with cornbread junks and gazing across Mississippi Delta cotton fields, I knew he was about to teach me another life lesson when he said, “Avoid fights, but when you can’t, instead of turning coward, deliver a sinkin’ lick.”
Noticing my confusion, he continued, “It’s a punch that buckles your opponent’s knees, making him sink to the ground — a sinkin’ lick.”
Then he taught me a defensive maneuver I thought I’d never use, a lesson of compensation, of making up for what I didn’t have by maximizing what I did — the uncommon trait of being left-handed.
“Put up your dukes, boy.” We squared off, but I wasn’t afraid, knowing Jaybird would never hurt me. Since my opponent would likely be right-handed, as Jaybird was, he threw punches at me, stopping his big hard fist inches from my nose. “Dodge to the left, dodge left,” he repeated over and over again.
That was lesson one. Lesson two was more difficult, mainly because my cowardly instinct would be to flee, not dodge and punch back, but because Jaybird’s lifetime of self-reliance imbued him with unshakeable courage and confidence, cowardice was anathema to him.
“Dodge to your left and use the hand you use best. When the other boy misses, he’ll be off balance. Right then, throw a sinkin’ lick straight at his nose.”
Like a man teaching a dog to fetch, he worked and worked with me. In time, his persistence paid off. Instinctively, I dodged as his punches whooshed by and threw a hard left punch straight at his nose, which he anticipated and deflected easily.
One Friday afternoon, the spring breeze wafting through the school bus windows set me to daydreaming about the next day’s fishing trip with Jaybird. Suddenly, my reverie was interrupted when “Huge Hugo,” the school bully, snatched my favorite cap and flung it out the window … with his right hand. The other kids hooted as he called me a coward and a sissy, but I did nothing but tremble. Later, when I told Jaybird, he grunted, “He’s not through — time for the sinkin’ lick.
He was right. Aware that I feared him, Hugo continued shaming me in front of our schoolmates. Standing up to him was the only way out. The next day at recess when he resumed the taunts, I squared off with him. Butch took a swing, I dodged to the left, and with all my might delivered a “sinkin’ lick” to his nose. Down he went, writhing on the ground, holding his face and bawling like the coward all bullies really are.
After school, I raced to Jaybird’s house. When he asked if Hugo had taunted me, I nodded, raised my left fist and said, “Just like you said: The sinkin’ lick did the trick.”
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)).
