In the fall of 1976, I was a seventh-grader at Southaven Junior High School in Southaven, Mississippi. I was new to the school and didn’t know anyone.
I was too skinny, but I went out for the football team anyway. One day before practice, I was sitting in front of my locker minding my own business when one of the other boys decided to take the shoestrings out of his cleats and swat me with them. I didn’t know the guy and had never spoken a word to him. I had absolutely no relationship with him. But that didn’t suppress his urge to whip me with his long nylon shoestrings.
He came over to my locker where I was sitting and swatted me once. I was stunned. It felt like a bee sting on my arm. He laughed.
“What are you doing?” I stammered.
He swatted me again.
By then, it was clear that his only motivation was to goad me into a fight.
I looked around for help. No coach in sight.
“Whatcha gonna do about it?” he taunted.
Sensing a fight brewing, the other boys began to huddle around and egg on the conflict.
I thought about my situation for a second and stood up. I didn’t want to fight this dude. I didn’t even know how to fight. But I decided I had to stand up for myself. Obviously, no one else would. The other boys didn’t even know my name, much less care about the injustice of the situation. And so they began to taunt me and encourage the other kid.
His name was Nelson, I learned. His friends called him “Nellie,” as in, “Hit ’im, Nellie!”
But no one was yelling, “Hit ’im, Timmy!”
Talk about feeling all alone. My heart started to pound. Nellie threw down the shoestrings and put up his fists, insisting that we get on with business. I didn’t want to do business with Nellie.
But knowing I had no other choice, I took the boxer’s stance as best I could and prepared to be pummeled. We exchanged a few punches before he landed a solid blow to one of my eyes, at which point I bent over in great pain.
Finally, one of the coaches pushed through the huddle of onlookers. Nellie stood gloating. I was doubled over in pain.
Coach escorted us both to the principal’s office. You know the drill. If you get caught fighting at school, it doesn’t matter who started it. Both of you go to the office, and normally, both get suspended. It was an early, painful lesson in injustice.
The school called my mom, and she came and picked me up. She had already called Dad at his office at First United Methodist Church. He was the new pastor.
Dad came home to talk to me. As I began to tell my tale of great injustice, it began to dawn on me that I was much more upset than Dad was.
He stopped me in the middle of my story and looked me in the (black) eye. In his starched white shirt and preacher’s tie, he began to preach a most surprising sermon to his firstborn.
“OK, I will talk with the principal,” he said, “but here is what I want you to do the next time.” I thought I knew what was coming from the young pastor. It would surely be the standard turn-the-other-cheek sermon.
But to my surprise, he offered this counsel: “The next time someone wants to start a fight with you, take your fist just like this.” He rolled up his sleeves to demonstrate.
“Take your right fist, double it up tightly, keep your head up so you can see what the other guy is doing, and then find an opening. Swing your arm as hard as you can, and punch him right in the face. Defend yourself, Tim!” he exhorted.
“There will always be bullies at school, and you can’t let them intimidate you. Now, show me what I just showed you. Go ahead, double up your fist and come at me like I was this kid at school.”
For the first time in my life, I understood that my dad, Rev. Don Wildmon – graduate of Emory University and a man of the cloth – was, in fact, cut from a different cloth. I discovered that day that he was a man who, if he thought it was a righteous fight, would fight for what he believed.
In fact, I would see him take his own advice many times in the years and decades to come.
Dad resigned as chairman of American Family Association and American Family Radio in February 2010, after 33 years of fighting for righteousness in our nation.
As it turned out, Nellie was a junior boxing champion. Who knew? Glad I didn’t. Looking back, I think I did OK to hold him to just one black eye.
(Digital Editor's Note: This article was published first in the March print edition of The Stand).
