Horseshoe pitching has existed as a sport for over a thousand years. The origins of this sport are most likely based in athletic competitions that involved throwing a heavy discus (imagine a stone Frisbee®). It is believed that fans of the Greek discus competitions created their own game by using discarded horseshoes and throwing them towards a stake in the ground. In 1869, the British devised the first actual rules for the game of “horse-hardware” pitching. There were limitations to the size of the horseshoes and the distance between the stakes at either end of the court.
Today the membership of the National Horseshoe Pitchers Association of America totals over 15,000, with over 6,000 members active in league-sanctioned tournament play. If you want to enjoy the game of horseshoes with your own family and friends, it’s easy enough to get started. reading2. png Select your court area: Find a rectangular surface of lawn or dirt that is flat and level and measures at least six feet wide and 46 feet in length. For safety, locate your court away from houses, decks, and other buildings, as well as far from any streets or walkways.
Mark your stake spots: Mark two points 40 feet apart and centered within the six foot-width of the court. This is where you’ll drive the stakes. Dig out the stake pits: You’re going to dig neat rectangular areas at either end of the court. The stake pits should be anywhere from four to eight inches deep, with the stake spot in the center of the rectangle. Load the pits with your “filler”: Loose dirt or even sawdust will do. You will have a much better court on which to excel at the game by using sand or clay. Use enough filler to bring the stake pit up to or just slightly below ground level.
Drive the stakes: Ideally you’re using metal rods that have smooth sides and are one inch in diameter and about 36 inches in length. You can buy these at a scrap metal yard or any good home improvement store. Drive the stakes into the centers of their respective pits until they extend 14-15 inches above the pit surface. Mark off your foul lines: Foul lines are marked off approximately five feet in front of the stakes at either end of the court.
Tips to anchor the stakes more firmly: You can anchor the stakes in a five-gallon plastic bucket filled with quick-dry concrete and ther k-dry concrete and then bury the bucket. You can drill a hole through a small log, pound the stake into it, and bury the log, rotating it so the stake is at the right height and angle. Finally, Time to Play There are MANY variations for rules and scoring in amateur play. Here are the basics: Each player pitches two consecutive shoes at the same stake and then walks to the stake, totals the points, and pitches back to the other stake. Full pitching to both stakes is called an inning. Players must pitch from behind the foul line.
Experts recommend concentrating on the spot where you want the horseshoe to fall while lofting the horseshoe with an easy underhand motion. RINGER (a shoe encircling a stake) – Three Points LEANER (shoe leaning on stake) – One Point Shoe touching the stake or shoe closest to stake (within inches) – One Point If both of your shoes land closer to the stake than your opponent’s closest shoe – Two Points * You can rotate pitching order or allow the highest scorer from the previous round to throw second.
Games are usually played to 40 points and extra innings are played to break ties. Frisbee” is a registered trademark of WHAM-O, Inc. PASSAGE 2 – Refer to this passage to answer questions 14 -24. On D Street Myla Goldberg The following excerpt from a novel describes the experiences of a young girl growing up in South Boston, Massachusetts (also known as Southie), during the early 1900s. 1 On D Street there was no need for alarm clocks: the drays, 1 ever punctual, were an army storming the gates of sleep. The wooden wagons were heavy and low-riding with loud rattling wheels, their broad planks too battered and begrimed to recall distant origins as trees.
Each dray was pulled by horses—two, four, or sometimes six per wagon, pounding down nearby Third Street. Windows rattled and floors shook; the sound was a giant hand shaking Lydia Kilkenny’s sleeping shoulders. Each morning she did not awaken to the sound, but inside it. In winter the drays came when the sky was still dark, their pounding hooves sharp reports against the frozen cobblestones In summer, perhaps because the sky was already pale with light, the sound of the horses seemed kinder. She knew the clattering wagons were bound for Boston proper, but the vague tangle of streets across the Broadway bridge surfaced in her mind with the sound of the horses and resubmerged with its diminishment. As the flow of drays subsided—the wagons no longer traveling two by two but single file-pounding hooves gave way to the creak of floorboards and the muffled voices of neighbors. Factory whistles blew.
Church bells rang. The vegetable man made his way down D Street shouting, “Fresh tomatoes,” even if there were no tomatoes, because those words distinguished him from the other egetable men who plied their carts through Southie. 3 South Boston belonged to Lydia as profoundly and wordlessly as her thimble finger. Her knowledge of its streets was more complete than any atlas, her mental maps reflecting changes that occurred from season to season, day to day, and hour to hour. Each time she left 28 D Street-one among a row of identical triple-decker tenements lining the street like so many stained teeth—her route reflected this internal almanac.
If on a Tuesday afternoon her mother wanted flour and jam from Hennessy’s, Lydia would avoid the more direct route along Fifth Street due to her dislike of the soap grease man and his fleshy block of laundry soap. No matter what the errand, Third Street was best avoided in early evening when the flood tide of drays returning to their stables posed a threat to both body and nose. 4 In deep winter, when ice and hard-packed snow made walking treacherous, West Broadway was the place to catch a ride on the tailboard of a snow dray delivering milk [or] groceries, … ut sledding was best saved for Dorchester Heights.
If a good enough sled could be found, and if the streets were not too crowded, it was possible to start at G Street and traverse almost a quarter of the alphabet-all the way to L Street. Whether because he was luckier or a year older, Michael was the superior sledder; at her best Lydia could only make ] Street before her sled or her resolve gave out. 5 Because Dan Kilkenny was an iceman, the whole D Street gang was in thrall to Lydia and Michael in summer.
In the thick of that season there were few things more magical than icethe blocks that emerged, impossibly, from the back of the wagon, steaming not with heat but with cold, the unmistakable stomp of the iceman conquering the stairwell, gleaming blocks of ice piled on his broad back like enormous melting diamonds. … Lydia was certain Heaven resembled the interior of her father’s ice wagon: a dark place, cool and quiet. There the salt hay, sawdust, and straw effaced the airborne tang of leather and glue from the nearby shoe factory and muted the call of the ragman.
On very hot days there was no need to confer in advance. The lot of them would be playing ball in Commonwealth Park, or ambling toward the beach at City Point, or playing marbles or Kick the Wicket on the street. Without a word Michael would turn to Lydia, or she toward him, and with a whoop they would preempt the day’s pursuit and set out for ice. At the sight of Dan Kilkenny’s brood, the iceman would toss out an extra block, the surplus ice arcing toward the street in a dream of captured light before exploding into frozen bliss on the cobbles.
Decorum was traded for the fleeting comfort of ice pressed into the perfect place. Frozen shatterings found their way into mouths, inside shirts and dresses, under chins, and atop closed eves. Ice was nestled into the hollows of throats and hammocked by the webbing between fingers and toes. Ice bent the iron rule of summer for a few precious moments before the heat clamped down again. 7 For ten years, this was enough. Then in fifth grade, Lydia saw a city map and realized her entire world was the smallest finger of Boston’s broad hand. The hazy destination of the morning drays acquired focus.
Across the bridge lay Boston Common and the swan boats of the Public Garden. Across the bridge lay Washington Street—the longest street in all New England—which began like any other but then continued south, a single, determined thread of cobblestone that wove itself through every town from Boston to Providence. Once Lydia saw Washington Street she knew she could not allow it to exist without her. 1 drays – low, heavy carts without sides “On D Street” from Wickett’s Remedy by Myla Goldberg, copyright© 2005 by Myla Goldberg. Used by permission of Random House.