Mayhem on the Lawn

Marauding undergraduates from the University of Maryland invaded the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis one night last week and burned a great disfiguring M into the carefully tended turf of Thompson Stadium. No one got too fired up. The lacrosse game coming up between Navy and Maryland was sure to be a minor riot, anyway, and the predawn blaze seemed almost a proper ritual. Rules, referees and two centuries of civilization have failed to temper the spirited spring sport that white men learned from the American Indian.

Strategic Scalping. In the days when they still could call their land their own, American Indians got their exercise from a game called baggataway. It involved as many players as happened to be available, a field of any convenient size, a small ball, and long sticks looped with a rawhide mesh. Running up a score came second to the thrill of rapping an opponent over the scalp with "accidental" blows from the baggataway stick. Any brave who shirked his duty could count on a beating from the switch-equipped squaws who ranged the sidelines.

Then French Canadians adopted baggataway and softened it up a little. But what the Canucks called lacrosse (because the stick looked like a bishop's crosier) was still mayhem on the lawn. Today, in its ultimate refinement, lacrasse is played by ten-men teams on fields 110 yards long. Modern players are not too proud to protect themselves with helmets, shoulder pads, arm pads and long, ribbed gloves. Almost anything goes in the effort to move downfield and toss an India rubber ball into a netted goal, 6 ft. square. The ball can be carried, thrown or batted with the crosse (lacrosse stick); there is no rule against kicking it either. The rugged character who breaks for the goal while cradling the ball in his stick runs a gauntlet of swinging sticks. Sooner or later he is sure to hear the loud battle cry: "Deck him!" For, by and large, body checking is also perfectly legal.

Offseason Diversion. For all its violence, lacrosse has had a persistent appeal. Maryland tourists brought it home to Baltimore in the 1880s, and with evangelical fervor made their city the lacrosse capital of the nation. For years, the rosters of All-America teams have read like pages from the Baltimore phone book.

Today in the U.S. lacrosse is a familiar sport from Florida to New England and west to the campus of Ohio State. It is only natural that it is a popular offseason diversion for football players who like to keep in shape. At Maryland, Muscleman Frank Tamburello, one of the most promising quarterbacks in collegiate football, is an enthusiastic lacrosse player. And since Navy and Maryland have not met on the football field since 1952, Tamburello and his teammates have an added incentive to scuttle the Middies in lacrosse.

Last year the Middies, with the help of such football stars as All-America End Ron Beagle, Halfback John Raster and Team Captain John Hopkins, stopped Maryland 12-7, and went on to win the national championship. Last week, hopped up for their big effort, both teams were still unbeaten when they collided in Thompson Stadium. And since the national championship is decided on the basis of seasonal records, the winner of this game was almost certain to take the title.

It was a slambang afternoon, including a few gashed faces, a lot of body bruises and an occasional bloody shin. Blond Ron Beagle, who offsets his clumsiness with the crosse by his ferocious shoulder blocks, rattled ribs all over the field. It was just this sort of overaggressive play that meant the end of Navy's record of 19 straight victories. With the score tied 8-8 in the final quarter, Beagle and a teammate wound up in the penalty box. Maryland's Charlie Wicker, best player on the field, promptly set up the play that scored the winning goal.

"Hit 'em again--harder!" pleaded the large crowd. Back in action, Beagle was still trying to ram his shoulder into a Maryland midriff when Wicker ran out the clock. The game ended, 9-8.

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