The Spirit in the Stick is an historical fiction/fantasy story centered on the careers of Navy’s Jimmy Lewis ’66 and brothers Doug and Jack Turnbull of Johns Hopkins of the 20’s and 30’s. The book traces the history of an ancient Native American lacrosse stick as it is passed down through several generations, dating to the eighteenth century. The most recent recipient, a young boy named Robbie Jones, receives the stick from Jimmy Lewis and quickly becomes aware of the stick’s special powers.
The book has received strong endorsements from the likes of Bob Scott, the Hall of Fame coach from Johns Hopkins who says in the Introduction, “This story is a major contribution to the great game of lacrosse. Indeed, it transcends the game. The rich historical and spiritual roots of its main characters provide stories which will touch every reader, regardless of age, gender, or association with the game of lacrosse.â€
An excerpt: …“Are you doing O.K., Robbie?†Red Hawk asked as he saw how shaken the boy was. “What happened to the plane!?†“This is going to be hard to watch....†“I can handle it. I need to know.†“Are you sure?†“I’m sure.†“O.K., let’s go to Baltimore.â€
Robbie and Red Hawk next appeared at the home of Jack’s mother, Elizabeth “Mum†Turnbull, Baltimore, Maryland on Election Day, November 7, 1944. Mum Turnbull had risen from her breakfast table at 9 a.m. and changed into a dress in order to perform her citizen’s duty to vote in the general election. She proudly clipped on her set of pilot’s wings, a gift from Jack upon his earning his qualification. While it was a task she performed every day—on every sweater, blouse, dress, jacket (and she would eventually be buried with)—today she did so with a great deal of melancholy. She had been notified that Jack had been reported missing two weeks earlier and hadn’t received any more recent news. No news, in this case, she thought, was bad news. With each passing day she had a greater feeling of foreboding. She walked to the front closet to get her coat when the doorbell startled her. She looked at her sister May, her housemate since her husband’s passing. She briefly hoped the visitor might be a neighbor coming to walk her to the polling station. That hope lasted but a second, when a chill ran through her body. She knew before she opened the door. She looked at May and said, “This is it.†She took a deep breath and opened the door slowly. Her breath left her lungs, and she briefly felt faint. Before her stood an army officer and a chaplain, certain to bear the news she feared most. “Mrs. Turnbull?†the officer asked delicately. Mum offered an acknowledgment with a barely perceptible nod. “Mrs. Turnbull, I am Colonel Finney. This is Reverend Sheedy. May we come in?†Still not speaking, Mum opened the door further, allowing the men to enter. She walked to her kitchen table and gestured for the men to sit. They waited for her and May to do so first. Finney began, “Mrs. Turnbull, it is with great regret that I must inform you that your son, Lieutenant Colonel John I. ‘Jack’ Turnbull has been killed in action over a small town called Petegem-aan-de-Leie/Deinze, Belgium, about nine miles southwest of Ghent and near the German border.†Mum did not move or respond. Her face betrayed the slightest hint that she wanted to know how and why, so the chaplain continued softly, “Mrs. Turnbull, your son was assigned as Command Pilot for a mission over Leverkusen, Germany. His group made a successful run over the site, but encountered a severe thunderstorm on their return to base. It appears that the aircraft that Jack was in was struck by another in its group, causing both to crash.â€