BODIES ARE BANGING all over the field. It is a sultry Sunday evening in Philadelphia, Mississippi and roughly 50 men are scrimmaging at a stickball practice and suddenly it’s clearer why the Choctaw people call the sport the Little Brother of War. As players scramble for a loose ball with a level of contact that would make a rugby player blush, a young man stands off to the side, thumping on a handmade wooden drum with a pulsating cadence.
“The drum is the heartbeat of the people,” says Jimmie Vaughn, Jr., the coach of the Pearl River stickball team that is fine-tuning its preparations for the biggest tournament of the year. Vaughn insists that his players, the defending champions of the World Series of Stickball, are intentionally taking it easy on each other so no one gets injured right before the big annual tournament, but that is not immediately evident. In July 2024, after five consecutive losses in the championship game, Pearl River prevailed to win a year’s worth of bragging rights and a ceremonial maple, hickory and deer-skin drum that is the Stanley Cup of stickball. The game is played in Native communities stretching from Tennessee to Oklahoma to Florida, but the dominant teams are almost always from Mississippi.
Stickball—no relation to the baseball variant played on city streets—is the oldest team sport in America. The oldest known written account of the game, which is called ishtaboli in the Choctaw language, was penned in the 1720s by a Jesuit missionary—meaning the game is more than a century older than baseball and predates the Declaration of Independence. Back then, stickball was a diplomatic alternative to war—a way for warriors in tribal communities to resolve disputes in an aggressive but non-lethal manner.
The game remains brutally straightforward and athletic. Teams with 30 players on a side try to score by hitting a tall wooden post with a small leather ball. There are no pads, no time-outs, no set plays, and tons of SportsCenter-quality hits. Everyone carries two netted hickory sticks that resemble miniature lacrosse sticks. Stickball played at this level requires the nonstop cardio of soccer, the technical skills of lacrosse, and the open-field tackling of football.
Vaughn has the squad scrimmaging with a drill in which the offensive players get five attempts to score against the defense, and whichever side prevails gets to watch their teammates run sprints or do pushups. The pace of the practice is unrelenting. The vibe on the field is at once physical and metaphysical—the guys are, after all, grinding out an intensely physical effort while keeping a sacred cultural tradition alive. “If we didn’t have stickball, we’d be nothing,” Vaughn says, explaining how the game was played by his father and grandfather and how he’s teaching his grandkids to play. “The game matters and so do the people you play it with.”
The community that bonds the players, who range in age from teenagers through guys in their 50s, is impossible to overstate. Way more than half the team is family—brothers, cousins, fathers, uncles—and the rest are neighbors who’ve been friends and teammates since childhood. Many of the guys are accomplished athletes who have had success playing non-native sports like basketball and football, but they realize that keeping the sport that their people invented alive has extra meaning. And none of them take the shared experience—a physical smackdown with the people who matter most to them—for granted.
“My favorite thing about stickball are the practices,” says Casey Bigpond, who has played the game for most of his life. “That’s where we hang out with our relatives and childhood friends. I’ve been playing almost 30 years and some of these players I’ve played with and against the whole time. We’ve watched each other grow up. It’s beautiful.”
Here, in their own words, Pearl River players and coaches discuss their love for the game, the competition, and the ways in which it strengthens their bonds to each other and their community.
Meet the team.
Robert Garcia, Jr., 41
“Me and my cousins started playing about 35 years ago. We didn’t even have stickball sticks. We would just get two tree limbs and put a rubber band or a string on the end and use it like scissors to grab the ball. Eventually we got on a youth team and the coach made our sticks.
It was intimidating at first, because I saw people bigger than me hitting each other and coming after me. But I remember getting hit the first time and thinking, was that it? I just got back up and knew I could do this.
If you’ve got the ball, you’re at anybody’s mercy because they want to hit you so hard that you don’t forget. I’ve taken a lot of big hits. I’ve broken my collarbone and separated my shoulder. We’ve had a few non-tribal people play and they don’t last long. Stickball is called the Little Brother of War for a reason.
I was told a long time ago that Peal River would never win. But we won it in 2016 and again in 2024. I want to win one more and retire. I have a few friends who got hurt and can see how they miss the game. I’m gonna try to go until I can’t play no more.”
Kahlon “Jak” Logan, 32
“I’ve been playing since I was four. Me and my cousin—I was raised by my uncle on the reservation—always had a pole. We’d get our sticks and just throw balls at it.
I play every position, back and forth throughout the game. The game is fast. We don’t wear pads, nothing more than sports tape and a mouthpiece. So it’s like a mix of football and rugby—you can tackle any way that you can get the guy on the ground. It’s so physical. On a scale of one to 10, it’s probably a 10.
I played college football—I was a wide receiver. But most good athletes come back to stickball to represent the tribe. It’s a way to prove yourself to your family, traditions, the community. The game allows Native Americans to pull each other back in and show that we still have respect for each other, even after everything that we’ve been through.
Winning a championship brings a lot of bragging rights. Most teams have been practicing four days a week since March or April. So if you win that championship after all you’ve been through in the hot sun, it’s a different feeling because it represents your community.
There’s so much tradition. Stickball used to be looked at as a war between two tribes and communities. But nowadays, it’s modernized so it’s community versus community without all the blood. Well, you still have blood, but not all the killing.”
Shaun Jimmie, 39
“I’m a corporal and canine officer with the police department here. I’ve been with the department 16 years now. I got my first pair of sticks when I was three or four. I got serious when I was eight or nine, when we were allowed to start playing in a league.
I played on the shooter side when I was younger. But when you get a little bit older, you slow down a bit. And so now I play in the defense side. It’s more aggressive and you’ve got to have some kind of strategy to not let the other team score.
I lift weights four or five times a week. Since I’m in law enforcement, it’s my nature. I gotta stay fit for the job and it makes it easier out on the field.”
Kanyon Jimmie, 30
“I started off as a shooter, a scorer. When I got to the men’s division, I started playing the center area. And lately I’ve been playing defense because we’ve got so many good shooters. I trust them.
Last year I was MVP in the championship. I got the ball a lot. I like to communicate, block for my teammates. I really don’t do a lot of tackling because they’ve changed the rules to make the game safer. They took away body slamming and will throw anyone who gets in a fight out of the tournament. So I just grabbed their sticks, grabbed their arms, just kept the opposing team from getting the ball. The new rules mean you’ve got to be more skilled.
When I was growing up, the Pearl River men’s team wasn’t winning championships. We finished in second place five years in a row. We just finally put it together last year.
We have our own language. I know the words but I’m not a fluent speaker. I love stickball a lot because I feel closer to my tribe and my culture when I play.”
I grew up playing football, too—I was a running back. Until recently, I was a football coach at the high school, Choctaw Central. So I would lift weights with the team. I didn’t coach last year and had more time to lift weights and run around with the kids.
I like hitting, I like getting hit. I like to win, I like to lose. I like being a team player and having brothers going to war.”
Gage Lewis, 20
“I remember throwing stickballs with my father in the yard when I was five. I started playing competitively when I was 12. I started off as shooter, but in my first year in adults I moved to defense. I like hitting people.
I like playing with so many relatives on the team. It helps our chemistry on the field. We all become close together—it’s like a brotherhood out here.
To scoop up the ball on the run, that’s not easy. The game takes a lot of practice. I also work on conditioning year-round. I want to be ready to play.
The atmosphere for the championship, it’s amazing. It’s like a big college football game. During the finals, all the drummers come together just to drum for that game. It’s pretty loud and gets you hyped up.”
John Wahwasuck, 54
“I’m not from here. I moved here from Oklahoma in ’88. When I first moved here, I thought it was kind of goofy. I was like, it doesn’t make any sense to me. But once someone handed me a pair of sticks, I was hooked. It’s the roughest sport I’ve ever played.
I really enjoy the camaraderie. I’ve been with this team since 2000. We play for the pride of our community and guys come together as a team like a family.
During practice, it gets heated. We have fights at practice. But when we walk on the field, we’re in the same color, same dirt. Everybody has each other’s back.
I don’t play anymore. I retired. But when I did play, I played the center position. I was pretty good at it. I’ve had nine knee surgeries. Every knee surgery was because of this game. I had a total shoulder replacement. Broke both ankles, plenty of toes, plenty of fingers, broke my nose nine times. Back in the older days, you could get away with a lot more. I stopped after I had my surgery in 2019. Now I coach the centers for the men’s team.
These people are proud. I’m a different tribe. But now everybody tells me I’m an adopted Choctaw. I feel that way.
Last year the guys were hungry. Our former head coach, he passed away. And we wanted to win for him. That brought a lot of people together. Like I said, it’s a family. We might not get along with each other when we’re practicing. But once we hit that field, it’s unity.”
Casey Bigpond, 41
I was a late bloomer with stickball. I didn’t start until I was 13. My parents were around church more. But as I got older, my stepdad, he was a stickball player. And after they asked him to be a coach, I went to practice every day.
When we play, we’re carrying on the lineage of our ancestors. I feel it as a responsibility to carry to the next generation. I have kids of my own, so I’ve taught them to play stickball. I also coach a youth team.
Last year we finally won the championship, so we’ve been in six championships in a row. But were years where everybody wasn’t on the same page. Last year everybody had the same mindset and embraced their roles. Not everybody’s gonna be the superstar; you have to accept whatever role you have and keep playing. That helped us win the championship.”
Jorgan Vaughn, 19
“I’ve been playing my whole life: I started when I was nine. My first memory is hitting somebody. Now I play defense in the men’s division. It’s definitely faster and as a defender you have to me more aggressive about hitting people. The skill level is higher, too.
The hardest thing about the game for me is failing—you know, making a mistake in a big moment. I definitely feel pressure out there. And my dad is the coach. So there’s more pressure there.
The atmosphere of the big tournament is crazy. The whole tribe comes out to watch you play. It feels like the whole community is behind you. They lift you up every time you make a mistake.”
Jimmy Vaughn Jr., 51
“I’ve coached some of these guys when they were kids. I’ve got three sons out there that I taught how to play. For the few years before we won the championship, it was more like everybody wanted a shot at being MVP. I’ve told them, ‘If you don’t trust each other, we’re not going to win.’ Last year was different. Our guys were hungry. We were stronger and less prone to getting frustrated at each other. I love everything about stickball—the passion, the hard work, the team, the opponents. We’ll talk smack before and during games, but afterward we’re friends.”
This story appears in the September 2025 issue of Men’s Health.
