WhatFinger


Growing up on the Mississippi Delta

The Spattered Batter



The Spattered BatterBoys who love sports dream of two brass rings: first homerun, first touchdown. I grabbed both rings in high school, but the homerun came at an embarrassing price. Coach Chauncey “Cockeyes” Coleman capitalized on my left-handedness and made a good pitcher out of me, not because I had a stinging selection of slings, but because most pitchers hurled with the other hand. Southpaws confused batters.
Coach Coleman’s eyes kept us on our toes. His vision was keen even though both eyeballs peered forty-five degrees each side of straight ahead, and we never knew which eye was on us, necessitating constant head switching when he talked to us. My head was switching when he said, “As a pitcher, you are an asset to the team, but you must learn to bat better.” He was right. As a hitter, I was hopeless. When I stepped into my place at the plate, Coach knew I would have to get hit with a pitch, or walked, to reach first base. So, I went to the person who always helped me solve problems — Jaybird, my best friend and mentor during my boyhood years on Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm. In his early days, the old black man had been an excellent baseball player, and using that experience, coupled with his masterful teaching skills, he worked and worked with me until my hitting skills improved. On the day we were squaring off with the Rolling Fork Falcons, Jaybird drove me to the baseball park, and the fans roared encouragement when the Leland Fighting Cubs trotted onto the field. The Falcons flopped early on, and with a commanding lead when I stepped to the plate late in the game, Coach signaled, “Hit away!” I looked over at Jaybird who gave me the thumbs-up sign — all the encouragement I needed. With a sneer on my lip and defiance in my eyes, I glared at my Falcon counterpart. As the leather-covered spheroid came hurtling through the air, slow and high — my favorite pitch — I tore the cover off of it. Sprinting toward first, I heard Jaybird yell, “Run, boy, run! This is your big chance for a homer!”

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The right fielder was still chasing the ball when I rounded second base. What I lacked otherwise, I made up for in speed, and home plate was in sight when disaster struck. I recall my cap flying off when I tagged third, then a glimpse of a large ebony bird flapping above, and then foul fowl droppings spattering all over my face. Gagging, I stopped to wipe off the smelly stuff. Above the fans’ laughter, I heard Jaybird shout, “Dammit, boy, you’re almost there — run!” I barely beat the relayed throw, and scored my first homerun. On the way home, Jaybird tried to keep a straight face while talking about how proud he was of me, but finally he broke down, and between bouts of laughter, said, “I sure hope I’m wrong about what fans might start calling you: the spattered batter.”

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Jimmy Reed -- Bio and Archives

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)).


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