Post by Old Bucks Admin on Mar 2, 2012 12:55:10 GMT -5
--Paul Egan
Well, holiday campers, Week 20 proved the adage that practice makes perfect and in many cases disproved the theory that, with age comes maturity and grace. The turnout was strong, as is not the norm in typical late season scenarios… it might’ve been because we the Old Bucks are collectively shaking off the winter blues, possible high anticipation of the post-game imbibitions and haute cuisine offerings of Lord TJ, or the sobering reality that, like a year without Santa Claus, there will not be Old Bucks summer hockey this season. Prologue spoiler alert - the scoring was too frequent to list the goals in kind; if one glanced at the box score in a newspaper, Old Bucks would appear to be a volleyball league.
In spite of a pitiful to-date w/l record, Blue resolved early that Ken Blankstein would have to be denied his singular oligarchic stance of “Lord of the Line Up Shuffles” to the continued benefit of lop-sided Red dominance. Or so said the spiritual Blue leaders - - we know who they are. A barn-burner out of the gate, Blue came out swingin’, netting two goals before Jim Heffern decided to get in his car and head to the arena. The inaugural biscuit was potted by the imitable Kevin Saunders, whose speed to the net and razor reflexes are usually rivaled by his follicle count only. Dashing Rich Devlin woke up out of his multi-game slumber with a darling of a twine twister that had the lamp lit while Heffern was still in the dressing room lacing ‘em up. As it is often said, a two goal lead is the most dangerous lead in hockey, and that theory was once again proved by Red coming back with a notable goal by Craig “Greased Lightning” Allen; having carried the puck the length of the ice he stopped at the blue line, waited patiently for the Blue curtain to fall back and neatly fold inward on itself, and then promptly crept in unopposed, dinging a wrist shot off the crossbar. A bemused Allen was seen to have fallen near his bench on post-goal line shift, having literally skated on and tripped over his own lung.
The pre-game spectre of Vinnie Bauerle tending the lobster trap for Red was met with Blue fear and trepidation; the reality was met with Vinnie falling back to house league earth. A regular in the men’s leagues at Ice Land, Vinnie’s return to the Old Bucks is much like Dana Patrick’s transition from Indy Car to NASCAR. Rest assured, readers, the Vinnie / Dana Patrick similes end there. Blue’s stacked line of Alex Cerbone, Bob Freiling and Dave Bassert assaulted the prior (game) impenetrable Vinnie like Jodie Foster’s character in The Accused, with the net acting as the pool table and the Blue bench as the throng of drunken, cheering onlookers. At one point Alex Cerbone lacrossed the puck out of mid-air and scored by swatting the puck as it bounced along the ice. Cerbone Sr., referenced in the first line, baked a dandy of a buttertart, standing virtually in the crease with the puck deflecting off his stick (some would say skate). Hey, ya gotta be good to be lucky. A power goal by an intimidating brute of a man.
Red came back with two goals that some would call questionable; this writers’ objectivity does not provide an opinion, only a retelling of the facts as recalled and reported. Jim “Praying Mantis” Heffern once again used his telescoping reach and Fred Astaire footwork to get around Blue’s defensive anchor Doug Rendell (who had an otherwise beauty of a game, BTW) for a clean breakaway, only to have his hopes dashed by a chop-block ice-felling from behind at the hands / stick of Rich “What are you effing lookin’ at?” Cerbone. Both protagonist and the unwitting Bambi slid into the goal, riding the puck in with, dislodging the net in the melee. The pundits and senior club intelligentsia deemed the goal a clean one given the characteristic of the good natured mauling. Another questionable goal for Red followed with Larry Johnson tapping in a sitting rubber duck in the crease that was claimed dead because Kenny G had smothered it and then released it at the end of the play. No audible whistle? Goal. The puck’s a hot potato until momma puts it in the fridge. Score is approximately 8-7 for Blue at this juncture. Also at this point in a typical game, the pace begins to wind down on both sides; tonight however, the hockey gods were having none of it.
With the aforementioned melee and scrums as fodder, Blue gets collectively ticked off, motivated if you will, riding the score sheet up 14-8. “We just have to go play our game” shouts the inspirational Saunders, with the irony of what Blue’s game has actually, historically been not being lost on those within earshot.. and in this instance, earshot being most of Mercer and Bucks Counties. “We need to put shots on the net!” shouts an unnamed from Red’s bench, “The horses are in the barn!” shouts another but none of these hackneyed chestnuts could assuage Bob Freiling slappin’ the cookie up to the top shelf twice nor lessen Rich Devlin’s second successful snipe of the evening. As is typical of his age but not of his weight, Alex “Ogie” Cerbone speedily, deftly danced in a couple; ditto Dave Bassert (same, ‘cept the weight part). To counter this Blue beachhead, Mike Robbins logged a (typical) fifteen minute shift, during which time he scored three. Forty five minutes in, Mark Herr left the game (late for him) mumbling “ Jeez Robbins, if I took that long a shift, even I could pot at least two”. Jim Heffern closed the gap with a fluid offensive zone scurry, flipping the puck past the fortress Kenny G (helluva game BTW, swatting pucks out of the air like biplanes in a prewar ape movie).. and speaking of a fortress… George Schott parked at his new desk, right in front of Kenny for a lovely redirect, closing the gap even more. Mr. Schott’s fifth goal in two games. Guy’s got it all. Tim White, looking eerily like the E-Trade baby at 248 pounds (it’s the light complexion and white helmet) scored a soft-handed thingy-sure goal-scorer’s goal to tie the game at 14. Shankopotimus be d**ned.
“We have to play a full sixty minutes” shouts an inspirational Ken Blankstein in an effort to rally his team; “Give it 110!!!” Mathematical impossibilities aside, this game went 90 minutes. Bill Hamill breaks the tie with a solid mid-shelf right side wrister on a solo drive toward the net. That goal alone should get yet another building dedicated in his family name very near the arena. A timeless beauty (the goal that is). On an otherwise off night, Bob Freiling, still feeling the after effects of a head injury from the previous week potted his second with goals to follow by Dave Bassert and a killer heads up “look what I found” play by Dave Hunt. Not only a dirty player and irascible foe, Mr. Hunt proves that he’s a goal scorer as well. Showing more spunk than is the dried variety festooned on the front seat of his Volvo, Kevin Saunders bookends the evening with a goal to end the game, 18-14 Blue. Truly a game for the aged...I mean, ages.
Post game, the siren song of Edesia and Bibesia harkened a record turnout at the institution that is TJ’s – this facility disproving the adage that great pizza is bountiful easy to find in New Jersey. One would have to travel a great distance (Pennsylvania?) to find worse. Foodstuffs aside, a very gracious in defeat Vinnie Bauerle brought forth beer for all, with Rich Devlin supplying what was thought to be a college dorm prank cinnamon infused whiskey, which proved to be very tasty indeed. The wine dorks that are Egan, Heffern and Saunders each brought a bottle of red, two of whom waxed insufferably poetic about the wines’ virtue and their obviously insecure feelings towards them (themselves, really). Mike Robbins brought a bottle of his home brew – also exceptionally good… notice the non-plurality though; not everyone was allowed to enjoy a sample. Apparently the puck isn’t the only thing that Mr. Robbins chooses to hold singularly, steadfastly onto. Devlin and Lupisella were typically graceful and sharing with their weekly libations. It was great to see Craig Allen out, a hall pass issued and his lung re-stuffed into its appropriate cavity. By proximity alone he had just cause for kickin’ the living crap out of Egan and Saunders for their oh-so precious wine jargon. He still has two weeks to euthanize them both…
Well, holiday campers, Week 20 proved the adage that practice makes perfect and in many cases disproved the theory that, with age comes maturity and grace. The turnout was strong, as is not the norm in typical late season scenarios… it might’ve been because we the Old Bucks are collectively shaking off the winter blues, possible high anticipation of the post-game imbibitions and haute cuisine offerings of Lord TJ, or the sobering reality that, like a year without Santa Claus, there will not be Old Bucks summer hockey this season. Prologue spoiler alert - the scoring was too frequent to list the goals in kind; if one glanced at the box score in a newspaper, Old Bucks would appear to be a volleyball league.
In spite of a pitiful to-date w/l record, Blue resolved early that Ken Blankstein would have to be denied his singular oligarchic stance of “Lord of the Line Up Shuffles” to the continued benefit of lop-sided Red dominance. Or so said the spiritual Blue leaders - - we know who they are. A barn-burner out of the gate, Blue came out swingin’, netting two goals before Jim Heffern decided to get in his car and head to the arena. The inaugural biscuit was potted by the imitable Kevin Saunders, whose speed to the net and razor reflexes are usually rivaled by his follicle count only. Dashing Rich Devlin woke up out of his multi-game slumber with a darling of a twine twister that had the lamp lit while Heffern was still in the dressing room lacing ‘em up. As it is often said, a two goal lead is the most dangerous lead in hockey, and that theory was once again proved by Red coming back with a notable goal by Craig “Greased Lightning” Allen; having carried the puck the length of the ice he stopped at the blue line, waited patiently for the Blue curtain to fall back and neatly fold inward on itself, and then promptly crept in unopposed, dinging a wrist shot off the crossbar. A bemused Allen was seen to have fallen near his bench on post-goal line shift, having literally skated on and tripped over his own lung.
The pre-game spectre of Vinnie Bauerle tending the lobster trap for Red was met with Blue fear and trepidation; the reality was met with Vinnie falling back to house league earth. A regular in the men’s leagues at Ice Land, Vinnie’s return to the Old Bucks is much like Dana Patrick’s transition from Indy Car to NASCAR. Rest assured, readers, the Vinnie / Dana Patrick similes end there. Blue’s stacked line of Alex Cerbone, Bob Freiling and Dave Bassert assaulted the prior (game) impenetrable Vinnie like Jodie Foster’s character in The Accused, with the net acting as the pool table and the Blue bench as the throng of drunken, cheering onlookers. At one point Alex Cerbone lacrossed the puck out of mid-air and scored by swatting the puck as it bounced along the ice. Cerbone Sr., referenced in the first line, baked a dandy of a buttertart, standing virtually in the crease with the puck deflecting off his stick (some would say skate). Hey, ya gotta be good to be lucky. A power goal by an intimidating brute of a man.
Red came back with two goals that some would call questionable; this writers’ objectivity does not provide an opinion, only a retelling of the facts as recalled and reported. Jim “Praying Mantis” Heffern once again used his telescoping reach and Fred Astaire footwork to get around Blue’s defensive anchor Doug Rendell (who had an otherwise beauty of a game, BTW) for a clean breakaway, only to have his hopes dashed by a chop-block ice-felling from behind at the hands / stick of Rich “What are you effing lookin’ at?” Cerbone. Both protagonist and the unwitting Bambi slid into the goal, riding the puck in with, dislodging the net in the melee. The pundits and senior club intelligentsia deemed the goal a clean one given the characteristic of the good natured mauling. Another questionable goal for Red followed with Larry Johnson tapping in a sitting rubber duck in the crease that was claimed dead because Kenny G had smothered it and then released it at the end of the play. No audible whistle? Goal. The puck’s a hot potato until momma puts it in the fridge. Score is approximately 8-7 for Blue at this juncture. Also at this point in a typical game, the pace begins to wind down on both sides; tonight however, the hockey gods were having none of it.
With the aforementioned melee and scrums as fodder, Blue gets collectively ticked off, motivated if you will, riding the score sheet up 14-8. “We just have to go play our game” shouts the inspirational Saunders, with the irony of what Blue’s game has actually, historically been not being lost on those within earshot.. and in this instance, earshot being most of Mercer and Bucks Counties. “We need to put shots on the net!” shouts an unnamed from Red’s bench, “The horses are in the barn!” shouts another but none of these hackneyed chestnuts could assuage Bob Freiling slappin’ the cookie up to the top shelf twice nor lessen Rich Devlin’s second successful snipe of the evening. As is typical of his age but not of his weight, Alex “Ogie” Cerbone speedily, deftly danced in a couple; ditto Dave Bassert (same, ‘cept the weight part). To counter this Blue beachhead, Mike Robbins logged a (typical) fifteen minute shift, during which time he scored three. Forty five minutes in, Mark Herr left the game (late for him) mumbling “ Jeez Robbins, if I took that long a shift, even I could pot at least two”. Jim Heffern closed the gap with a fluid offensive zone scurry, flipping the puck past the fortress Kenny G (helluva game BTW, swatting pucks out of the air like biplanes in a prewar ape movie).. and speaking of a fortress… George Schott parked at his new desk, right in front of Kenny for a lovely redirect, closing the gap even more. Mr. Schott’s fifth goal in two games. Guy’s got it all. Tim White, looking eerily like the E-Trade baby at 248 pounds (it’s the light complexion and white helmet) scored a soft-handed thingy-sure goal-scorer’s goal to tie the game at 14. Shankopotimus be d**ned.
“We have to play a full sixty minutes” shouts an inspirational Ken Blankstein in an effort to rally his team; “Give it 110!!!” Mathematical impossibilities aside, this game went 90 minutes. Bill Hamill breaks the tie with a solid mid-shelf right side wrister on a solo drive toward the net. That goal alone should get yet another building dedicated in his family name very near the arena. A timeless beauty (the goal that is). On an otherwise off night, Bob Freiling, still feeling the after effects of a head injury from the previous week potted his second with goals to follow by Dave Bassert and a killer heads up “look what I found” play by Dave Hunt. Not only a dirty player and irascible foe, Mr. Hunt proves that he’s a goal scorer as well. Showing more spunk than is the dried variety festooned on the front seat of his Volvo, Kevin Saunders bookends the evening with a goal to end the game, 18-14 Blue. Truly a game for the aged...I mean, ages.
Post game, the siren song of Edesia and Bibesia harkened a record turnout at the institution that is TJ’s – this facility disproving the adage that great pizza is bountiful easy to find in New Jersey. One would have to travel a great distance (Pennsylvania?) to find worse. Foodstuffs aside, a very gracious in defeat Vinnie Bauerle brought forth beer for all, with Rich Devlin supplying what was thought to be a college dorm prank cinnamon infused whiskey, which proved to be very tasty indeed. The wine dorks that are Egan, Heffern and Saunders each brought a bottle of red, two of whom waxed insufferably poetic about the wines’ virtue and their obviously insecure feelings towards them (themselves, really). Mike Robbins brought a bottle of his home brew – also exceptionally good… notice the non-plurality though; not everyone was allowed to enjoy a sample. Apparently the puck isn’t the only thing that Mr. Robbins chooses to hold singularly, steadfastly onto. Devlin and Lupisella were typically graceful and sharing with their weekly libations. It was great to see Craig Allen out, a hall pass issued and his lung re-stuffed into its appropriate cavity. By proximity alone he had just cause for kickin’ the living crap out of Egan and Saunders for their oh-so precious wine jargon. He still has two weeks to euthanize them both…
