When I stepped to the plate, bunting was the last thing on my mind. I was determined to slug the ball over the Little League field’s outfield boundary. A bunt, I thought, was an insult to my Louisville Slugger bat.
“You ain’t big enough or strong enough yet to hit homeruns,” my mentor and best friend Jaybird would say. “That’ll come someday. Right now, you need to get good at what you can do. Become the team’s best bunter; the coach will notice, and he’ll play you more.”
The old black man loved baseball, and knew it 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 right makes big things happen.
When we weren’t working in Dad’s cotton fields, we were in Jaybird’s backyard, practicing baseball. In time, his patient coaching paid off. I became as good at bunting as I dreamed of being at hitting homers. As Jaybird predicted, the 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 friend also predicted, coach began signaling bunt to me even when there was no one on base.
“It’s not because you jes a good bunter,” Jaybird observed. “Coach knows what I know — as a base runner, you is fast as a jackrabbit, and when you cross home, yo’ score is wuth as much as anybody else’s, so if a bunt is likely to get you on base, he wants you to bunt.
“But don’t signal yo’ intentions. Step to the plate, wind up like you’ll swing with all your might, and jes’ when the pitcher is about to let fly, square away to bunt. You’ll catch the fielders on their heels, and before they can git to the 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 turned those developing assets into a new level of strategy.
Because word had gotten around among the other teams that I always bunted, the fielders edged in. 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.
So much of what that old man taught me translated into advantage when I stepped onto the playing field of life. I learned that everyday “bunts” may not provide instant success, but they help me progress toward my goals. Then, when the situation is right, I strive to get the most out of opportunities … to go for the long ball.
Experience has taught me that getting a chance at life’s homeruns depends on doing well what Jaybird taught me: bunt.
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.
Other books by Jimmy Reed include The Jaybird Tales.
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