Rumble of 1869 (eBook)

Chapter 2

Two weeks later, one could see a singular, determined focus in the faces of the crowd that moved along a dirt road through the cool, dense air. They had one objective: get to the Close at the Rugby School to see the game. The cloud of dust that accompanied their eager footsteps could not diminish their enthusiasm. 

On their way, the crowd passed the Gano home. Peering in the window of the simple, wood shingled single story home, one could see a beautiful blonde woman standing by the stove, cooking. Two young girls sat at the table and a younger boy sat intermittently in a rocking chair by the fireplace. The boy restlessly sat, then stood, flipping an oblong leather object in the air. His eyes flashed toward the window, then to a clock on the wall. 

“What time is it, Mum?” asked Stephen Gano Jr. 

His mother, Jeanne Gano, shook her head as she once again answered her energetic six-year-old son, “It’s now 1:33 Stephen.” 

Impatiently Stephen Jr. urged, “Mum, we’re gonna miss the first buck if Uncle Jack doesn’t hurry up!” 

“If Uncle Jack told you he’d fetch ya, he will. He wouldn’t promise something he couldn’t do,” Jeanne replied. 

With that a big, burly man burst through the wooden door. He carried a bundle of long orange strips of cloth. 

“Well, hurry along Stephen! We’re going to miss the first buck if we don’t get moving,” Uncle Jack boomed. “What’s that there, Stephen ? Is that the ball for the Rumble?” 

Young Stephen shook his head “no” as he explained that it was one of his father’s winning game balls. The new ball is with my father. We picked it up yesterday and it’s a beauty. His mother helped him put on his jacket and tied a scarf around his neck. Within seconds, Stephen Jr. was running out the door. He pretended he was playing in a game, running back and forth, carrying the ball toward and avoiding imaginary tacklers and dodging their interference. He pitched the ball to his Uncle Jack as Jack lumbered out the door behind him. 

“Pitch it back to me Uncle Jack,” squealed young Stephen. 

Stephen effortlessly caught the pass Jack threw. A true natural, Stephen Jr. proceeded to run excitedly in circles around his uncle. 

Amused and laughing, Uncle Jack warned, “Don’t drop it lad. Dropping the pigskin will bring you bad luck!” 

As if he’d heard it a hundred times, Junior wearily responded, “I know Uncle Jack, I know.” 

More seriously, Jack queried, “So, you’ve been practicing?” 

“Yep. I want to be a great footballer like you, Uncle Jack!” The child proudly stated. 

“Well, I was a good footballer till I got this hitch in my step playing with the older bucks and their mates. Your father, though, he’s a footballing legend! It sure would be a great honor to him and the family for you to become a great footballer too,” encouraged Jack. Pausing for a moment, Jack added, ”Ya know, most men would rather be a meater (coward) on the sidelines.” 

“Not me, Uncle Jack!” Stephen boasted. “Papa has been teaching me ‘stragedies’.” 

“’Stragedies’ eh? Well, you sure will need those,” Jack said smiling. 

Before long they arrived at the mostly dirt field where the game was to be played. Crowds filed onto the sidelines of the evergreen tree-lined field. The energy of the crowd was contagious as the eager spectators, some running, jockeyed for the best viewing spot.

As Uncle Jack and Stephen Jr. got closer to the field, they began to see tree branch wooden goalposts appearing through the dense afternoon fog. 

Light rain began to fall as Jack and Stephen Jr. approached Stephen Gano Sr.. Gano Sr. a gregarious Adonis of a man, was greeting all that came in contact with him,till he greeted his brother and son. Standing together, the three peering across the field sized up the competition. The battle was about to begin. 

After tying an orange cloth around his head, then around Stephen Jr.’s head, Jack handed the bundle to his older brother, who quickly handed one to each man on his squad. Some men arrived in proper daytime attire, most in their work attire all wearing shoes or boots. The rugged looking men were then busy taking off their top hats, overcoats and vests. Slowly, they tied the orange cloths around their heads, contemplating what was to come. Knowing suspenders could be easily grabbed, the men converted them into tight belts around their waist. They didn’t want to give the other side any advantages. 

The teams began the task of limbering up, stretching this way and that, making sure to ready every muscle for the ensuing battle. All the while, not one man took his eyes off the competition. Both squads were grunting and shouting encouragement, building their confidence and focus. Stephen Sr. rallied his team’s enthusiasm, shouting out words of encouragement, “We’re going to Batty-Fang ‘em, my bricky lads!” and “Thrash them Coal miners” and “Shake a Flannin!” 

More than 350 spectators crowded the boundaries, and more were coming. News quickly spread that a Rumble was about to begin. Continuing his efforts to incite spirited devotion, Stephen Sr. grabbed a short, bald headed man by the cheeks, got close to his bearded face, and queried, “Are we ready Mr. Oliver? I know you have it in ya. We need your best efforts, mate!” 

Grinning, Mr. Oliver shouted, “Ready Captain Gano! We’re all ready! Let’s hammer the Coal miners!” 

The Lumberjacks were ready for battle. A collective, angry, determined grimace marked the team. Excitement was in the air. 

Meanwhile, Stephen Jr. was checking out the competition. He was feeling nervous as he looked at the forty or so men. Most were hard, weathered looking workingmen. 

“Wow, look at the Coal miners, Uncle Jack!” he exclaimed worriedly. 

Through his own eyes, looking at the same team, Jack saw nothing but a few tired old men and young, nervous lads. None, in his estimation, were prepared for the physical and mental war they were about to encounter. 

“Not to fret, young Stephen. With your dad as their leader, the Lumberjacks have already won this match,” Jack pronounced. 

“But Uncle Jack, the game didn’t even start yet. How could we have won?” 

“Like you told me earlier, Jr., your dad has strategies.” 

“What ‘stragedies’ Uncle Jack?” 

“Well, young Stephen,” Jack began, “Ya see how your father is watching the other squad getting ready? He’s noticing if they’re arranged or not. He’s seeing their nerves and sizing up the team in general. Are they taller, slower, faster or heavier than his team? Ya see, if it’s a fast team, they’ll be wantin’ an immense field. Tall, big teams like to keep the ball high and bulldoze down the middle. It’s all about figuring out what the other team’s strengths and weaknesses are so he can plan accordingly.” 

Mesmerized by his uncle’s words, young Stephen nodded. He watched as the Coal miners captain used his finger to draw their plan of attack in the cold hard dirt. Soon the rain would soften the dirt, rendering the field treacherous for the players. The team huddled around the captain trying to prevent their opponents from seeing their strategy. 

Nonetheless, Stephen Sr. knelt and watched every move the Coal miners made. He knew their captain, Leo Doyle, from the occasions when they met at the town pub, “The Squirrel Inn.” Leo was a tall, black haired, burly man. His salt and pepper beard was the only thing that betrayed his age. 

Watching the captains on the field, Jack turned to young Stephen to comment, “Your father is observing their expressions and actions. He’s noticing the guy wrapping a knee, the one stretching his back more than the others, the guy saying a prayer. Do you see the guy that’s scared to death, Stephen?” 

“Yes, Uncle Jack,” Stephen responded, watching the Coal miners intently. 

“Your dad can sense fear, Stephen. You have to have courage to be a great footballer. Courage is finding the strength to overcome your fears. You have to get past that fear and just play free,” Jack instructed. 

Enthusiastically, Stephen replied, “That’s great, Uncle Jack! Mother wants me to be smart and father wants me to be fearless. I’m gonna be a good footballer alright!” 

Beaming, Uncle Jack put his hand on young Stephen’s shoulder and assured him, “You will be just that, Stephen! You will be just that!” 

Moving slowly, Stephen Sr. casually approached the opposition. Leo smiled and offered his big hand in a formal greeting. “Hello Long Shanks,” Leo teased, his Scottish brogue barely noticeable. 

Gripping his hand firmly, Stephen Sr. replied, “Long time no see, Blacky.” 

“Loser buys pints at the Squirrel, eh?” Leo proposed. 

Stephen Sr. nodded, “Yep, and I’m really thirsty!” But might go to the farmhouse barn this time considering the size of each team.

The men returned to their teams before the formalities of the game proceeded. With fervor, each delivered final encouragement to their players. 

As was the custom, concerned family and friends made their way onto the field to offer their own last-minute advice, warnings and of course, wishes for bountiful luck. Using burlap sacks filled with falling chimney ash, young boys were marking the final boundaries on the enormous 200 feet wide by 400 feet long mostly dirt playing field. 

Finally, the captains walked mid-field and...