Skagway's borderline mythical egg toss

The energy was electric. People buzzed in anticipation as the starting time of 1 p.m. drew closer. But it wasn't until Buckwheat walked to the middle of Broadway with a cart holding several hundred eggs that I recognized the magnitude of what was about to happen.

The date was July 4, and I was about to take part in the annual highlight of Skagway's Independence Day celebration: the egg toss.

People of all ages instantly swarmed Buckwheat and squawked for eggs like baby birds at feeding time. Because I was only there to take pictures for the newspaper, I resisted claiming an egg of my own. But then my friend named her egg Marty McFly, and I realized there was no way I was sitting this out.

I secured an egg and promptly named it Eggs-calibur. Because I had waited so long, the only person I could find to be my partner was my editor's 11-year-old son Danny. The announcer of the egg toss, who happened to be my editor Jeff, shouted through a bullhorn for all teams to line up down the middle of Broadway, and a line of people stretching hundreds of people long for more than two blocks began to take shape.

The street was brimming with excitement as Jeff yelled out the rules. At the sound of the bullhorn, players must toss their eggs to their partner, standing just a few feet across from them. If the partners catch the egg, both players take a step back and the partner tosses it back. If the egg falls and cracks, they're out. I see people furiously rubbing their eggs, as if warming them will prevent them from shattering when they hit the ground. Danny's mom, a veteran egg tosser, advises me to remove my belt. I leave it on. A baby drops her egg and begins to cry. Less competition, I think.

Jeff, standing what seems like a mile away from us, shouts for us to toss for the first time, and the competitors erupt into applause and cheers as they convert the gimme. We are told to take a step back, and with each subsequent toss, the tension builds. Gradually I see eggs cracking on the ground and players dejectedly walking to the sidewalk to watch the rest of the competition from afar. After eight or so tosses, everyone in my vicinity is still standing, except for that baby, who probably is eating ice cream.

At the next command, Danny, now standing about 25 feet across from me, tosses the egg low. I have no time to think. Only react. I dive forward, extend my arm out and cup the egg mere inches off the pavement. Spectators behind me marvel and applaud the catch. I hold the egg up for the world to see. We are told to take a step back. It was at this point I realized I would not win the egg toss.

I very slowly and deliberately lob the egg to Danny, who catches it without having to move. This is how you properly throw an egg across a street, I ESP to him. He responds by launching the egg seven feet to my left, almost hitting another competitor in the face. I lunge and desperately reach out, but I can barely get a hand on it before the egg falls to the ground and cracks open. The dream is over. I walk up to Danny and give him a high five anyway. The kid's got heart; what can I say. I take my place on the sidewalk and watch as the rapidly thinning field continues to shrink.

A couple of throws later and the remaining teams are backed up to both sidewalks. Players are taking their time before each throw, waiting to see how those around them fare before they let go of their eggs. Every other throw is a snapshot in heartbreak, as the slightest bobble sends eggs smashing against the concrete. The center of the streets is splattered with yolks.

When there is no more room to back up on the street, Buckwheat calls for all remaining teams to convene around him at the heart of Broadway. About two dozen surviving pairs report to him. The crowd, now substantially bigger thanks to the hundreds of eliminated competitors, murmurs as Buckwheat instructs the tossers to line up across from each other the long way of the street.

Players are now standing close to 75 feet away from their teammates. There is no way to toss an egg this distance gently. One person attempts an overhand throw that ends in yolky failure. Even perfectly aimed tosses are spoiled when the eggs inevitably burst upon contact with the recipient's cradled hands. The crowd, several people deep and surrounding the playing field, bursts into applause with every catch, especially one diving effort that puts mine to shame.

There are soon only four teams remaining. Competitors will now throw one at a time nearly 100 feet across from their partners. I pause and notice the smattering of egg carcasses filling the street. Marty McFly is dead. There can only be one champion.

Meanwhile, the four teams get ready to throw. There's an old man with a long beard paired with a teenage girl wearing a Peruvian chullo hat with earflaps. He's from Skagway; she's visiting from the lower 48. They were strangers prior to the egg toss. They watch as the three teams before them launch their eggs across the street and follow their trajectories as they explode like grenades either on the concrete or in the catcher's outstretched hands, leaving their hands gooey and their dreams shattered. Coolly, the old man lobs his egg down Broadway. The crowd begins shouting before the egg reaches its apex. The girl moves forward as she tracks the egg, and amidst the chaos, catches it cleanly. The crowd erupts. She celebrates. It is the climax to the greatest sporting event I have ever witnessed.

Minutes after the egg toss ends, the crowd starts to dissipate. The girl is signing an autograph. Curious dogs begin licking the splattered egg decorating the street. The old man is nowhere to be found, only adding to his legend. The girl continues to receive high fives as Fourth of July organizers start setting up the next competition, the tug-of-war.

Hours later, as they do every day, the tourists retreat to their cruises, leaving the streets virtually empty and strikingly calm. Sometime around 8 p.m., a street sweeper rolls down Broadway, slowly removing all traces of yolk and shell that defined the pavement for blocks. Tomorrow's crop of tourists will be oblivious to what happened this afternoon. The ones who were here will always have a story from that one time they visited Skagway. And for those that live here, their memories will have to suffice, at least until next year.