For Alf
A kindness
Tradition is important. I didn’t grow up with a ton of it so I didn’t recognize it until I experienced it. But somewhere along the line, I became invested for life in the game of lacrosse. As a result, I tried my best to learn about all of the traditions and origins of the game.
Lacrosse gave me a lot of things. Confidence, love for my teammates, an outlet for my Napoleon complex, a shot at a college I didn’t deserve to get into, and - oddly - multiple jobs. It gave me this newsletter. I am grateful.
I met Alf (some people call him “Alfie”…I went back and deleted most of the times I call him that in this story because I don’t feel like I’ve earned that right) Jacques in 2007 on a trip to the Onondaga Nation with Mike Blanchard. Mike and I coached at Emerson College from 2007-2009. This was early in our relationship and he was one of those wily old coaches who just had a story for everything and never stopped shuffling his feet. Always held eye contact for two seconds too long and called you by your first name. I figured he read “The 48 Laws of Power” like one too many times, but in reality, he was probably just making sure you understood him. Sometimes I didn’t.
One day, while we are recruiting at the Tully Shootout (shoutout Tully, New York - where dreary meets bleak), Mike turns to me and says, “Hey, do you want to meet Alfie Jacques?”
“Who is that?”
He laughs, “You’ll see,” then turns back to the field to watch a kid we have zero chance of committing. I cross the kid off in my book.
We leave the tournament and drive up and around mountainous forests lined with old telephone poles. It is beautiful and familiar - a little greyer than my corner of the ‘Shire but peaceful.
We reach the entrance to the Onondaga Nation - I remember the sign almost popping out as we took the turn. We drive up and through a series of winding roads until we pull up under an outcropping. All I can see is a roof overhanging above - sort of like an elevated barn. Mike shuts the car off and we get out. I smell wood burning and notice plumes of faint smoke wafting over our heads.
We walk up to the shop and Mike - who is lithe, mustachioed, and bursting with energy - says, “Hi, I’m Mike Blanchard!” to the only person in the back of the shop. He’s not tall, but even though he’s sitting down I can feel his eyes on us. As we enter the space, I finally understand where we are - it’s a workshop.
Alf Jacques makes wooden lacrosse sticks. It’s an arduous task to make just one stick, and Alf Jacques does it himself. It’s a labor of love and tradition.
Alf and Mike talk. I start to slowly wander around the shop. Not touching anything, but just pushing my personal perimeter by a few steps or so. Curious, but not intrusive. Mike gestures for me to come over. I’m introduced to Alf. He’s warm and businesslike at the same time. The eyes are working. He’s sussing me out. We make small talk for a bit, and then he asks me if I string sticks. I remember thinking, “How did he know to ask me that?”
(In hindsight it was probably my hands, which were calloused like a gymnast…if the gymnast were a small ape with no neck or balance.)
I answer, “Yes.” as I eye an old milk crate full of purple and black patterned shooting strings. He sees me looking. But he turns around and walks out of the shop for a few minutes. Mike is giddy. “Wait until you see this,” he says, his foot tapping, torso swaying with excitement.
Alf comes back with a beautiful wooden stick. He hands it to Mike, Mike shows me. I don’t even touch it. Alf thanks us for coming, but before he sits back down, he looks over at me and he says, “Do you like those?” gesturing to the milk crate full of shooters.
“Uh, yeah, they’re great.”
“Want ‘em?”
I freeze.
“I have more coming,” he says without looking up. He waves his hand. I look at Mike and take a handful.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
He looks up and smiles. “String something good with them,” he says. I keep it together long enough to bound down to the car and get in. Mike looks over and smiles.
“How cool was that?”
I nod and just look down at the shooters. They’re just shooting strings. But they feel like more.
I know now that they were an unnecessary and unearned kindness. The best version of kindness.
I strung the last remnants of that bundle in a single-string six-diamond traditional pocket back in 2012. It was in an STX Professor. I gave it to the younger brother of one of my players when I left college coaching.
I don’t know if Alf remembers this story. I don’t know if he remembers me at all.
But.
Life isn’t about being remembered. It’s about serving the people and the community that you care about. The things that bind us are not just about where we are from or who we are related to; they’re attached by emotion and experience. And yes, sometimes by trauma as well.
It is about kindness.
So, I don’t ask you for all that much. A dollar here, a dollar there to subscribe, sure. But this isn’t for me. It’s not for you. It’s for the lacrosse community. No one asked me to do this, I don’t want you to tag the newsletter in the GoFundMe or anything weird like that. Just help Alf out. He’s shared his gift and his tradition with all of us. We owe him a lot more than a donation.
https://www.gofundme.com/f/please-assist-a-friend-and-legend-alf-jacques
Thanks for reading; thanks for helping.