Wood's Words: Sticks (Part Two)
Jim F. Wood ‘64
New York route 37 roughly parallels the St. Lawrence River from Hammond to Hogansburg. In many places, there are high bluffs from which you have commanding river views, its many islands and the commerce that plies from its mouth in the north Atlantic to the rich Mesabi Range in northern Minnesota. The river is part of the Great Lakes watershed, gouged and scoured during the Wisconsin Glaciations and subsequent ice advances that moved hundreds of million of tons of soft Paleozoic shales, salts and sandstones during the ice age. The last retreat began some 14,000 years ago allowing an isostatic rebound of bedrock formations that now appear as thousands of river islands and high bluffs and which direct the surface waters of the largest fresh water impoundment in the world. For centuries, Native Americans used this watershed for transportation and sustenance. To the south are the Adirondacks, a series of folded and unconnected metamorphic uplifts comprised mainly of granite gneisses that separate the Hudson watershed from the Great Lakes.
On a sunny fall Saturday in 1962, with those puffy white clouds that seem to separate the deep blue of heaven from the reds and browns of earth, we found ourselves traveling northeast on route 37 in Frank’s red ‘57 Chevy. The top was down, and we all wore heavy green sweaters, each with a large gold letter “C” sewn above the left pocket, against the wind whipping through the open passenger compartment. Because we were not sure of our destination, we picked up the road in Ogdensburg. Our hope was to locate the factory where, we were told, all the lacrosse sticks in North America were hand made. Approaching Massena, there was no sign we would be successful. At a gas station, Roger asked if the attendant knew of such a factory, and we were directed to North Main Street to access route 131, and from there to Old River Road from where we could see Long Sault Island ahead of us mid-stream in the St. Lawrence River. The island was low and bare except for a small lodge near the shore. Smoke billowed from a metal chimney that stuck out the side of the building and was held in a not-so-vertical position by some sort of wire wrapped around it and nailed to the brown clapboards. The upside down V-cap that should have protected the chimney from rainwater hung to one side swaying in the breeze. There were no windows or doors visible, and the roof seemed layered with multi-colored shingles, perhaps repairs made whenever and wherever leaks happened to show up inside.
We parked in a gravel lot on the edge of a large grassy field that must have been 2-1/2 miles in the east-west direction and a mile to the river’s edge north of the lot. A flock of ten or twelve Canada geese glided 450 feet overhead, on their way to Newfoundland, talking to each other as they slipstreamed along. At the intersection of Pontoon Bridge and Old River Roads, there were a number of barns and several old wooden houses with porches that faced the river. A few sugar pines, some as large as ship’s masts, guarded these houses. On one porch sat a man smoking a pipe. He could have been 50 years old- he could have been 75. His hair was long, black with streaks of white and braided down his back with a rawhide ribbon. His eyes were dark black pools and his face was lined as if the glacier had passed over it fourteen millennia earlier. A torn, stained red bandana was wrapped carefully around his neck and tied with a square knot. He watched us approach- smoke curling around his head before the wind caught it and blew it away. He kept staring even after the question had been asked, and with almost no perceptible movement, and not a word uttered, he pointed the stem of his pipe at a gray two-story barn a half-mile down river from his house.
We walked back to the car, rolling our eyes and trying not to laugh. Frank reparked the car next to the barn and we circled looking for a door. From behind us a voice shouted, “Hold on boys, eh. There’s nothing in there for you.” It was the guy from the porch. We told him our story: Clarkson lacrosse players; want to buy new sticks, attack, midfield, defense and a goalie stick; looking for the Indian factory around Massena; we’ve got money; want to buy before that company from Baltimore, Bachrach, can buy up all the good ones; would like to see how they are made too.
He put a hand on the building to support himself as he lifted his left foot and whacked the bowl of his pipe against his heel to shake out the embers, which he crushed carefully with his boot. His left shirtsleeve slid up his arm as he leaned against the building revealing a tattoo shaped like a “⌠” on his forearm. Then, without a word, he walked to the end of the building and turned the corner. Eyes still rolling, we looked at each other and followed. On the side facing away from the river was a small door built into a larger, wider rollup. He went inside and we followed. The switch lit three or four bare bulbs high in the ceiling, but as our eyes adjusted we could see row after row of sticks, many finished, others just frames, hung like shirts and pants in a laundry. Some of them already had been labeled with a Bachrach sticker placed along the outside of the crosse’s wood rail. Near the door was a large vat with some sort of entrails soaking in liquid and next to it a drum full of rawhide lacing.
The old man looked at us and said, “Narrow heads $20 a piece; wide $25 a piece; goalie sticks $30 a piece. You can buy anything that hasn’t been labeled. Hurray up, eh!” We had orders from half the team, so our job was to pull down sticks, test the pocket and toss a ball around to feel the stick’s weight and balance.
Native Americans have been playing some version of lacrosse for centuries. The design of the stick was one characteristic differentiating the game between high plains, desert and northeast tribes. Versions of the stick include a short handle and small, circular net, barely larger than the diameter of the ball. Other versions include a larger net and rules permitting each player to use two sticks. The version in use in the 1960’s evolved from the Iroquois and Mohawk tribes of New York, and particularly those along the St. Lawrence River. This stick consisted of a single piece of wood- usually ash, although hickory was used in the 1800’s- somewhat shaped in the manner of a shepherd’s crosier.
Alf Jacques, a Native American stick maker of the Onondaga Nation in upstate New York, still produces hickory sticks in the traditional manner. A tree is selected with a straight trunk at least eight feet in length. Depending on the diameter, it will yield six to sixteen wood billets 1-1/2 inches to 2-inches square on a side. The billets are dried for at least two months after which the two feet of each billet that will become the head is steamed for several hours in order to soften it for bending. The first bend creates the round head, and the second creates the small offset that forms the head to shaft intersection. Once bent, the head is tied with a piece of wire and the stick is allowed to dry for ten to twelve months. When work begins again, the wire is removed and the head is re-steamed to adjust it for balance. Finally, a very sharp drawknife is used to shape the head and the eight-sided shaft. During the carving process, the stick maker pays close attention to weight and balance, because every billet is slightly different owing to its density, location in the trunk, its moisture content and grain straightness. A series of holes are drilled in the head and along the side from the head to the shaft intersection. These holes are used to fit the rawhide and gut webbing that form the stick’s pocket. Across the base of the “V”, where the gut and wood sides meet, a short gut bridge is fitted to form a throat. The throat protects the ball from jamming at the base of the “V” which, while potentially offering benefits to a running player, would make it impossible for him or her to throw the ball accurately. The ball is made from hard rubber and has a geometrically off-center balance point allowing it to be curved when thrown and setting up an odd bounce every rotation along the ground.
A new stick had to be broken in properly, but for purposes of establishing its playing characteristics, it was sufficient to step gently in the webbing to initiate a pocket, then to place one’s index finger at the throat of the “V” and gauge the stick’s lengthwise and rotational balance. A stick with a heavy wood wall needed an opposite heavy gut wall to balance it in rotation. A player could become familiar with a new stick’s characteristics after a few hours of tossing and catching. Even so, players constantly stripped and re-wove the pockets of their favorite sticks during a season and would have at least two favorites in case one broke during a game.
Thus, we selected and rejected from among several hundred sticks, those that we felt by nuance and instinct would play well next spring and having completed due diligence, we paid the old man and walked to the car. Someone suggested we take advantage of the large field to break in our own sticks, so the four of us grabbed the special sticks we had selected for ourselves and ran across the field in a mock game, passing and shooting at invisible goals. The old man returned to his porch watching us from behind a fresh pipe- smoke rising again in big puffs like the chimney on the island. After a half hour, he strolled over and asked me if he could handle my stick. He was, simply, amazing as he snapped the stick on the ground with one hand to pick up a loose ball, passed to one or another of us from behind his back, and pulled fake shots and passes away from us as we reached toward him in faux blocks and checks.
During a short break, he explained that the field was part of the Akwesasne, which is the only Native American reservation straddling two countries. The territory includes mouths of both the Raquette and St. Regis Rivers and a number of islands in all three rivers. The name Akwesasne, he said, means “land where the partridge drums.” He had a strong and accurate throw and we reveled in an hour of play with him at the center of it all while the puffy clouds passed by overhead and the sun moved to the southwestern horizon. Suddenly, he threw the ball straight up into the air…
The leather covered wood ball fell out of the mist five feet right of the point of release. He was quick to dart in that direction and leapt high stretching his arm and stick toward the ball. As it landed in the stick’s pocket, he pulled the stick down, barely avoiding the slashes and swinging sticks of a dozen red and white warriors, and darted to his left rocking the stick quickly in a motion every lacrosse player calls the cradle. The cradle sets up a centrifugal motion that cushions the ball against the pocket webbing and allows a player to change direction quickly or to take a solid hit from an opponent while retaining control of the ball.
He ran 100 yards toward the river, with a lot of whooping and yelling from behind and along side, as red and white warriors chased him northward. Suddenly, he stopped, pivoted and threw the ball with all his strength southeastward toward the other side of the field in a set-play he and the elders had discussed that morning. As the ball disappeared into the mist, he heard the strong sound of a whistle fade away, and with it, all the warriors near him turned and ran in the direction of the ball.
The ball landed almost 150 yards away in the middle of a mass of Akwesasne and Caughnawaga warriors. Sticks slashed at ankles and shins in attempts to bat the ball free of the crowd. Warriors fell holding badly bleeding legs. As the battle moved away, elders would help the injured to their feet or carry them off the field. Those badly hurt would not return to the battle. Given their disadvantage in numbers, the Akwesasne could not afford many serious injuries.
By late morning, the red and white had begun to prevail. Early, Caughnawaga runs toward the west end of the field had been interrupted easily by prepositioned Akwesasne who retrieved the ball and threw or carry it eastward. Over time, injuries and sheer numbers began to shorten the advances eastward, and Caughnawaga advances west toward the Akwesasne chief threatened to close to within 200 yards. In early afternoon, the red and white warriors formed an attacking company of 100 men. In the center was the large warrior still angered that he had not captured the ball at the beginning of play. They advanced quickly from the northern edges of the field. The green and gold defense fought bravely, but the red and white came closer, deflecting blockers and sticks swung at the ball carrier’s stick. The red and white closed within 50 yards and suddenly all attackers except the tall warrior broke toward the right. The green and gold defense warriors followed instantly leaving the tall warrior alone. Then, from the middle of the nearby scrum he heard the ball whistling toward him. There it was- almost perfectly thrown- on his right side where he caught it, spun left and found her standing alone 10 yards in front of him. He wound up and launched a shot directly at her stomach. Even if it should hit only the fringe on her jacket, the Caughnawaga would win the battle.
The ball left his crosse about hip high at 100 miles per hour. It lifted slightly, but flew true. She stood facing him, hands crossed on her chest defiantly. From her left, the cousin dove with his stick outstretched to its limit. The ball reached the plane of his stick a split second too late and instead struck the cousin on his forearm, shattering the radius bone two inches above the wrist, before caroming away toward the shelter. The chief stood unmoved as the tall warrior stamped his foot on the ground. Ten defenders ran after the ball, one scooped it up from the ground, turned and faced 75 red and white warriors swinging at his stick and head. All he could do was throw the ball as far down field as possible. The whistle got the attention of both sides, but the red and white knew that had been a close one and pressed to retrieve the ball and set up another attack. The ball landed in front of a lone green and gold defender who scooped it up and threw it up field immediately. Again, the ball landed in front of a defender who scooped it up, but instead of throwing it up field, threw it cross field toward the riverside. He had figured correctly that the sound of the two throws up field would have drawn red and white warriors to his side of the field and that the odds of a green and gold warrior retrieving his throw now were better on the other side. Then it started to snow.
The ball landed 150 yards from him and he started to run to it before being waved off by one of his teammates. A vicious fight ensued, during which three sticks and an arm were broken. He wanted badly to join in the fray, but hovered instead outside, circling to stay in position if the ball should exit. It did so after a number of players were too injured to continue the fight, and it rolled slowly toward him as he scooped it up, turned and ran as fast as he could toward the east, cradling the ball in the stick close to his body.
Several groups of red and white warriors observing the scrap began to position themselves to intercept him as he got closer. And behind them, almost 300 yards away was the chief, her faced painted in bold red and white markings, watching the tactical battle now unfolding. He slowed to a trot and looked around. Maybe 100 mixed warriors were running toward him 250 yards to the west; 25 warriors stood far to south on the fringes of the field; none of those from the prior scrimmage had chased him.
He chose predictability, running directly at the larger group of defenders. A second group, on his left, stopped and watched the charge. Five or six defenders moved to challenge. His fake was perfect, and they slipped on the wet grass. Others moved to block, but he had penetrated nearly half way. A large stick missed his head, and he pulled his stick closer, cradling rapidly. About 10 yards from the main body of defenders, he turned left in what would be remembered later as an impossible change of direction at his speed on such slippery grass. The makeshift moccasin treads had held and he now broke into the open. The remaining warriors on his left, caught flatfooted, tried to intercept him, but they were an instant late. He charged straight at the opposing chief and as he reared back to throw the ball, he remembered the words of his own chief at the start of the day, “Play hard, but play fair.” He lowered his lacrosse stick, continued cradling and, as he reached her, he removed the ball from the crosse and tapped her on her shoulder. The battle was over. There was an inch of snow on the field.
In the spring of 1986, many former players were invited to Clarkson to attend an Alumni lacrosse game and dedicate Hantz field. Gerry and I have stayed close since graduation, and as men in our forties, in reasonably good shape, we were excited to head to the North Country in early April to honor Jack Hantz who was a special person in our lives. We met at Syracuse airport and drove to Potsdam without a single speeding ticket. We both had spent the month of March running laps at local high school tracks and throwing a ball as often as possible. We were ready.
Players changed in the Walker Arena locker rooms. There must have been 40 alumni that day; some from the early 1960’s had decided to watch the antics and didn’t dress. Our wooden sticks set us apart immediately. Younger alumni walked over, picked up a stick, try to cradle, quickly made some off putting remark, laughed, and dropped it on the floor. No respect!
Each player was handed a Clarkson stick as he left the locker room. Wow, perfect balance, soft deep pocket, green plastic head and aluminum shaft. Changing from right hand to left hand was a cinch. I tried Gerry’s and he tried mine; not an ounce of difference in either weight or balance. You could not tell either stick apart. We carried them with us to the field, and, in truth, never used our own wooden sticks that day.
Jack stayed out of the miserable weather in a car on the far side of the field. There were low clouds and a steady westerly breeze. April in Potsdam! As everyone warmed up, I walked over to the car. He rolled down the window and smiled. It was good to see him- he looked a little pale and tired, but was in good spirits. Is that Gerry too? Did you guys come from the Island? Will you be coming to the pizza and beer party in the basement of Woodstock later? Do birds fly? Ha, ha, ha.
The field was properly dedicated; all players walked to the center and raised their sticks in Jack’s direction. It was a bit like a pickup game because guys played pretty much as long as they had wind, and pretty much wherever they wanted. Early in the game, I found myself on the right crease, great pass on my stick from someone near mid-field, a one timer to our attack man in front of the goal- and bingo- one-zero in our favor. I looked over at the car; Jack gave me the thumbs up. Then it started to snow; an inch fell before the game was over.
Gerry was standing along the sidelines. After a few runs up field, his very muscled legs had cramped badly and he was in real pain. I stood next to him gulping air and water, not knowing which I needed more. The younger guys were breathing hard and coming in and out of the game regularly, except for a guy named Alan, Clarkson’s 1978 All American. He was fast, great set of wheels and clever with his stick. He shot left and right (we say with both hands); Gerry and I watched with great satisfaction at a teammate and an alumnus with such skill.
Woodstock was warm and crowded with players and non-players, beer and pizza that afternoon. There was a sort of camaraderie among all of us even those who hadn’t known each other a day earlier: Stories were recounted about games recent and in history. Jack visited with each class year, and when he got to us, he asked, “Do you guys remember the Syracuse game in 1963?” Other alumni became quiet; most had never played against Syracuse. After 1971, the NCAA was formed and created divisions in each sport that represent roughly the strength of a member’s program. While Clarkson hockey rightly has been grandfathered as a Division 1 sport, all other Clarkson sports are Division 3. Syracuse has been a perennial Division 1 lacrosse power ever since the NCAA was formed.
In 1963, we played Syracuse at Clarkson, on a field behind the old Alumni Gym. Snow was piled up on the sides and ends of the field. The game was scheduled for 1 pm. The year before, at Syracuse, they had taken no prisoners. I knew several Syracuse players that year against whom I had played on Long Island, including Dick Finley who led Freeport High School to a Long Island championship in 1957 and was a First Team College All American at Syracuse his senior year in 1962. As the Syracuse team got off the bus, several of us nodded a civil hello. But there was no camaraderie that afternoon in 1963. We lost 23-3 (Syracuse waited until 1964 for full revenge when they beat us in Syracuse 19-0), but the memory Jack was looking for involved our face-off midfielder, a 5’-9”, 140 lb. kid named Herm.
A lacrosse game begins with two players facing each other, their sticks pressed back-to-back horizontal and on the ground, with the ball placed between them. Each player leans forward and with the referee’s whistle there is a straining for leverage until one player can dislodge the ball and his team gains control. Strength and balance are more important than speed or height making this face-off quite different than one you would see in hockey or basketball.
Herm’s opposing Syracuse player was a 6’-2”, 245 lb African American whose muscled body was barely restrained by his uniform and who wore no pads. With a 23-3 loss, Herm would have had to face-off 26 times. By the third faceoff, Herm had a clod of ice and snow stuck in his helmet’s mask and his right calf was bleeding. The Syracuse player literally ran over Herm each face-off; the ball would scoot along the ground, and he would pick it up, run into the Syracuse attack zone with his stick held high, then pass to an attacker who would start their play. From my position on the Clarkson attacking side of the field, I knew they were talking during the face-off, but I couldn’t hear the words. At half time, I walked over and asked Herm how it was going. Big mistake; he let out a stream of invective that could never be repeated. He was going to kill the big SOB! Who does he think he is telling me to relax and he won’t run over me any more!
The second half was no better, and although Syracuse took out most of its first string with the game well in hand, the big center midfielder was on every faceoff. By the end of the game Herm was red faced from growling under his breath. Clumps of snow and mud were stuck into every nook of his uniform.
His shirt was soaked, his stick filthy, his helmet caked with sod. Blood ran down his left shin, and from his nose. What a mess. But never did he give up, and midway through the third period, the Syracuse “middie” slipped, Herm grabbed the ball, headed up field, dodged one defender, passed the ball to the attack man who scored over the goalie’s left shoulder. That made it 15-1, but we still felt pretty good.
The game ended with the traditional handshake. Herm refused the Syracuse midfielder’s hand and ran into the locker room where he sat and sulked for nearly a half-hour. By the time the rest of us were showered and packed, Pinky Ryan had worked a little magic and Herm had bandages on his cheek and leg, and a cotton swab in his nose. Suddenly the locker room door burst open smashing against the doorstop. In walked the African American midfielder. Instantly Herm stood up and glared, but the Syracuse player just ambled over, sat on the bench near Herm and said, “You’re one tough guy. You can play on my team any day. Clarkson is lucky to have someone like you.” He got up and extended his hand, which Herm shook. Then John Mackey, the 1963 number two draft pick who had just signed with the Baltimore Colts, and who had decided to stay in shape his last semester at Syracuse by “playing a little lacrosse”, walked out of the locker room and into NFL history.
In the summer of 1986 we learned of Jack’s passing. I am sure each of his green and gold warriors raised their stick out of respect for the man who brought lacrosse to Clarkson, nurtured it in those early years, whose name was given five months earlier to a green field in upstate New York and whose name also was engraved in the College Wrestling Hall of Fame in 1979: But that’s another story…
He slid silently under the bearskin, every muscle in his body ached. The celebration had been short: Both chiefs met in the center of the field, agreed on the terms of control for the river and gave their words of honor. He was presented with the ball, and as he walked back to the river his cousin joined him, several thin beech slats on his swollen right forearm held by strips of deerskin. They sat in the middle of the returning boat- neither could work an oar. Gentle taps on his shoulder and nods followed him as he walked from the shore through the island village to his family long house.
He turned on his side trying to ease the pain as his sister whispered, “Did we win?” There was no answer. He was already asleep. He would have to start the morning fire in 4 hours.