On a merry reach of Sussex greensward, hard by the Greyhound Inn, the Toucan Terribles set out last week to defend their title of World Marbles Champions. For twelve straight years, the Terribles had won the colors. This year, however, the very honor of England was at stake. Among the 15 challengers scheduled to appear at Tinsley Green, a hamlet (pop. 150) just 28 miles south of London, was a band of upstart colonials from Chicago.
The Terribles were undaunted; they had a secret weapon that had never failed to take the day—marbles hand-carved from the finest porcelain commodes. Toucan Captain Len Smith, 50, winner of nine world championships, explained that only porcelain gives the "tolley" (shooter) the proper heft and feel. Every Toucan tolley is custom carved to fit the knuckle, but none has a diameter greater than .75 in.—the dimension prescribed by the British Marbles Board of Control.
No Fudging. As legend has it, the British marbling tourney traces its heritage to the days of Elizabethan chivalry. For the hand of a maiden, two 16th century swains clashed in an "all known sports" tournament in which marbles, for reasons now obscure, became the dominant contest. By the 1700s the marble tournament had become an annual Good Friday ritual in Tinsley Green. The tourney began in the morning; at high noon (the hour Sussex taverns open), the referee cried "Smug!" and the tournament ended. The rules are wondrously simple: 49 marbles are placed in the "pitch" (ring) and each member of the competing teams takes his turn at trying to knock one out. Shooting is a thumbs-only proposition—a flick of the wrist constitutes a "fudge" (foul) and disqualifies the contestant for that round. As in pool, each successful shot merits another, and the team that picks up the most marbles wins.
On Good Friday last, a jolly throng turned out to see if American mettle could match Toucan porcelain. But the colonial question had unfortunately been resolved by default: the Americans failed to show. Still, the Toucans were presented an immediate threat by the Johnson Jets of nearby Langley Green, who "killed" Smith in the first round by slamming his tolley off the pitch. But Len's son Alan saved Toucan face by knuckling ten straight hits to lead the Terribles to a 25-20 victory and their 13th consecutive championship. The battle done, Terribles and challengers alike repaired to the Inn, presumably to quaff nut-brown ale and pinch lusty tavern wenches till the cock did crow.