CASS LAKE, MINN. – The sound came first: a chorus of wooden sticks clattering together in the air, followed by a sharp yell that cut across the gym. A leather ball arced skyward, and a scramble of young players rushed in, colliding, tumbling and springing back up. When someone went down, a hand reached out to help them up.

This wasn’t just a game. It was baaga’adowewin — the Ojibwe word for lacrosse — the Creator’s Game, once played to heal, to prepare warriors for battle or to settle disputes between communities. After years of dormancy, the sport is re-emerging across northern Minnesota reservations, drawing youths in numbers not seen for generations.

“We’re at the forefront of another wave,” said Patrick Haugen, who helps organize weekly traditional games in Bemidji. “There was a big wave back in the ’90s, another in the 2000s. Now it’s happening again — and it’s more than just a sport. It’s culture.”

Among Indigenous nations, lacrosse has always been more than competition. In Ojibwe teachings, it is medicine: a game that heals when played with full effort and a good mind.

“It’s the Creator’s Game,” said Dan Ninham, a 2025 Minnesota Lacrosse Hall of Fame inductee and Oneida educator who has spent decades reintroducing lacrosse and other Native sports to schools and communities.

“If someone was sick, a game might be played to help with healing. If people had a disagreement, they could play, and the result would settle it.”

Stories of the game vary. In some communities, lacrosse was called the “little brother of war,” with strategies echoing battlefield maneuvers. In others, it was a way to prevent conflict — competition standing in for violence. What ties the traditions together is the idea that playing hard, but with respect, produces good medicine for everyone involved.

Before games, players often place tobacco on the field, offering thanks. At camps, young athletes are reminded to respect themselves, their opponents and the land.

“The culture comes through in how kids carry themselves,” said Chris Jourdain of Red Lake, who brings youths to clinics each summer.

The sport’s return to reservations was not always greeted with enthusiasm. When Fond du Lac held its first overnight camp in 2010, some residents bristled.

“People said, ‘Why are you bringing that white guy sport into our community?’” recalled Bryan “Bear” Bosto, who helped launch the program.

The skepticism wasn’t unfounded. By the mid-20th century, traditional lacrosse had largely faded from Ojibwe country, while the modern version thrived at East Coast prep schools and Ivy League colleges. Its Native origins were obscured, its reputation recast as an elite pastime.

But history was on the organizers’ side. Archival research within the community revealed a former lacrosse field in Fond du Lac’s old village. Elders remembered stories of massive summer games in Ball Club in Itasca County, where bands from across the region once gathered. As kids returned from camp eager to play, perceptions shifted.

“We weren’t just teaching lacrosse,” Bosto said. “We were teaching nutrition, decisionmaking, culture. Once people saw that, the support came.”

The revival today blends two versions of the game. Modern lacrosse — the version played in colleges and, soon, the Olympics — uses helmets, gloves, alloy sticks and rubber balls. Traditional lacrosse requires only handcrafted wooden sticks and a small leather ball, with tall posts as goals.

At the Boys & Girls Club of the Leech Lake Area, Haugen ran a six-week program that fused both forms. Players practiced in modern gear, but each game began the old way: sticks raised, the ball tossed high and a yell to the Creator.

“It was always the most powerful moment,” Haugen said.

Cost remains a hurdle. Modern equipment can run into the hundreds of dollars, nearly as expensive as hockey. Traditional sticks, though still a financial investment, allow entire communities to play with little else but open space.

“It’s more feasible to grow the traditional game here,” Haugen said. “Someday I’d love to see communities fielding their own teams again, like they used to.”

At Fond du Lac camps, coaches stress a handful of simple rules: Respect yourself, respect your opponents, respect the field, and remember that you play for the Creator. Fun is encouraged, but discipline is paramount.

Other teachings emphasize toughness and warrior strength. Some elders describe the game as training for young men to defend their people. Bosto acknowledges those perspectives but said his focus is different.

“We emphasize healing, respect and community,” he said. “That’s what we want our kids to take away.”

That ethos shows up in play. Jourdain, who also coaches basketball, noticed the contrast.

“In lacrosse, you don’t see cheap shots or trash talk,” he said. “You see kids playing hard, then helping each other up. That’s the culture of the game.”

Advocates say the resurgence reflects more than changing sports tastes. It’s part of a broader reclamation of Indigenous traditions suppressed by boarding schools and federal policy. Only in 1978 did Native people regain the legal right to practice their spirituality.

“There’s historical trauma tied to why these games disappeared,” Ninham said. “But that also gives us motivation to bring them back. Every time kids play, they’re carrying forward something that was taken.”

Momentum has also come from opportunity. Collegiate lacrosse is growing, and scholarships are increasingly available. Corbyn Tao, who played Division I lacrosse before co-founding the Indigenous Lacrosse Alliance, said younger players now see both cultural pride and future pathways.

“They’re acknowledging this is part of their heritage,” he said. “But they’re also seeing opportunities — education, travel, community. That’s powerful.”

On Thursday nights in Bemidji, Haugen watches a mix of adults and kids, Native and non-Native, take the field together. He imagines something bigger: community teams gathering again for summer tournaments, like they did generations ago in Ball Club.

“Sports are such a big deal here,” Haugen said. “I’d love for lacrosse to be just as central as basketball. Not just for the athletic side, but because it’s medicine. Because it’s ours.”

Inside the Cass Lake gym, sticks clashed and voices rang out, each shout to the Creator echoing off the walls — proof that after decades of silence, baaga’adowewin is alive again in Minnesota.