Post by Old Bucks Admin on Mar 15, 2012 20:52:55 GMT -5
Saturday’s Game. By Mike Robbins.
The last week of Old Bucks (more particularly Saturday night) saw an egregious and uncharacteristic gaffe by player/GM Kenny Blankstein. “Uncharacteristic” because this one did not occur on the ice in his own end. As the Sunday night warriors arrived in the typical trickling fashion, it became apparent the game would feature Kenny G as the lone goaltender. When questioned about the cause of this breakdown in intersquad communication, Dr. Blankstein offered the following explanation, as blunt as it was eloquent:
“Eff off. This isn’t my full time job, you know.”
Indeed it is not. Still, his day job isn’t exactly curing cancer. (“Wait, he does what? Oh come on.”)
The players took to the ice under a cloud of deflation, disheartened by the fact that the game wouldn’t really “count”. Alex Cerbone was positively crestfallen and repeated, with a sad and detached look in his eyes: “No one told my dad….someone could have called, but no one told my dad…”. The game kicked off with Kenny G between the pipes for Blue and under orders to switch teams every thirty minutes. Benny Blankstein volunteered to provide some impromptu goaltending in front of the inverted Red net. What seemed at first a comical idea immediately began paying dividends as Benny made a number of improbable saves including a sprawling right knee block on a streaking Diaz. Mike Robbins opened the scoring for Red with a cross-ice low shot that caught daylight between Kenny’s pads, causing Ken to let out an early paint-peeling expletive. Paul Egan, who apparently is Canadian although he’s not mentioned that before, came afoul of some ice snakes near the Red bench and tumbled arse over teakettle, much to Red’s delight. It was that kind of start for Blue as George Schott, Eddie, and John Lupisella added tallies to build up an early Red lead, 4-0. Schott appears to have found his power game in the late stages of this season and Red will certainly be looking to him for continued production next season.
The Bassert boys were able to kick Blue’s offense into gear with two timely goals and narrow Red’s lead to 4-2 before Kenny G’s first thirty minute stint with Blue expired. With Ken now backstopping the Red net, Red shooters would need to ring their shots off the Blue iron to light the lamp. Blue temporarily kept their momentum rolling, invigorated by the opportunity to shoot on a goaltender and not a flailing Benny Blankstein. Paul Egan, atoning for his earlier blooper, cut off a Red breakout pass and jumped into transition with a strong drive down the left side. Only the sticky palms of a beaten Kenny Blankstein prevented Egan from capitalizing on his opportunistic read. Steve Sousa showed that his game is not all intimidation and finished off a dandy of a rush up the right side, culminating in a snapshot to the top-right corner. Alex Cerbone then finished off a loose puck on the doorstep, but at this point Red had discovered the unexpected ability to hit the post when actually intending. Dingers from Millen and Alan Blankstein helped Red gradually push the score to a soon-to-become unreachable 8-5.
The final twenty minutes of the game began to show the general disinterest that had pervaded the one-goalie game. Highlights became few and far between, save for a classic Huck Fairman left post slam dunk and a world class stop by Kenny G on a Robbins breakaway. Ken delivered an insincere “sorry Mike” as he covered up the loose puck with a sneer. With the clock now pushing 6:00, players began retiring to the locker rooms in sweeping numbers while the game devolved into a messy open ice session. Scorekeeping ended due to apathy and we can only conjecture Red won 11-7.
Post-game festivities migrated from TJ’s to Hooters as the attendees sought draft beer, wings, and the buxom charms of a world-renown wait staff. Bob Freiling, all the Blanksteins, Tim White, John Lupisella, Mike Robbins, Rich Devlin, and Paul Egan all met up under the glow of tacky 1990’s bar décor and orange spandex. Laughs were abundant as conversation topics ranged from worldly travel destinations, Old Bucks 2012 awards, why Buffalo isn’t a dump, and what the Drinking Club members were doing the year Mike was born. As the night came to a close for the second-to-last time, Mike Robbins, John Lupisella and Rich Devlin strolled over to Joe Canal’s with laughter filling the air, proving with the certainty of our heart’s numbered beats: matters of age are irrelevant amongst good company.
Sunday’s Game. By Jim Heffern
There was no fanfare to kick off Sunday’s game, the last game of the Old Bucks season, not even a sentimental gathering at center ice for a club photo to replace the two-megapixel daguerreotype that now graces the website. Both teams took the ice more out of routine than passion and the two goalies, Jamie and Vinnie, emerged from the locker rooms dazedly, a “time to make the donuts” trance in their eyes. If anyone showed enthusiasm for the game it was Saunders, and only because he was out to impress his new friend, Kelly, whom he had invited to the game. During warm-ups he flitted about the ice like a spring chicken, and with the pride of a bald eagle, peppered Jamie with shots.
Still both teams bent to their work, the planned gathering at TJ’s injecting a note of urgency into the game. Paul Egan, for one, was under doctor’s orders to apply “pizza therapy” to his torn stomach muscle whereby the muscle is distended by large amounts of cheese, increasing blood flow to the region and expediting the healing process. He skated for Blue, as is his wont, and fell right in with the plodding pace of the game. The game itself was a mundane affair. Red’s offense, for the most part, consisted of three goals, one by Mike Robbins, one by Jason Millen and one by Alan Blankstein. Otherwise it looked lost, not so much like the blind leading the blind as the slothful leading the somnolent. In contrast, Blue played like the defiant, unbowed runner-ups that they always have been and always will be. Credit Bob Freiling who had five goals on the night, four against the usually indomitable line of Millen, Millen and Fairman. Bobby was a pleasure to watch; he not only scores but does so with a gentleman’s polish that keeps the Old Bucks spirit fresh and lively. Sometimes you need that to remind yourself that Blue is not all flagrant checks at the blue line or slap shots that, like cannonballs, seek to mow down entire ranks of soldiers. Combine that with Saunders who, in deference to Kelly, had checked his Mr. Cranky Pants persona at the door, and Blue seemed almost likable. They certainly deserved to win the last game of the season. In addition to Bobby, Alex Cerbone had a hat trick, Saunders had one, Brian Urban had one and Diaz had one in Blue’s well-executed, but ultimately meaningless, 11-4 victory.
The after party first met and then surpassed expectations. Even Marty came off the DL to attend. Whatever light was saved for Daylight Savings the club squandered in unrestrained prodigality. Basically the club divided into two tables: the “hip” table and the Paul Egan table. The hip table had the club’s best, most sparkling personalities: Eddie, Craig Allen and Mike Robbins just to name a few, all holding court and surrounded by a standing-room only throng of gushing admirers and hangers-on. The Paul Egan table, in contrast, was sparsely attended by those whom you’d regard as “socially challenged”: Jim Heffern, Larry Johnson and most of all, Rich Devlin, who showed up wearing a medical boot because he had dislocated his pinky toe after stepping on a tennis ball. By accident, Marty found himself at the Paul Egan table. Out of politeness he tried to remain as long as possible but once Paul got to describing how a wine’s bouquet can vary from the center of the cup to its rim, Marty had reached his threshold for pretentious utterings and took his leave, telling Paul to stick a flower in his wine bottle “to make the table look nice”. But the Paul Egan table had one thing the hip table did not: Kelly, who was smart, engaging and Saunders’ complete opposite in every way. She did not mince words when passing judgment on Paul’s Arrowood Syrah (“I don’t like it”) and if Saunders had had any hair he would have yanked it out in frustration at how she lavished attention on everyone but him.
Soon the hip table was baiting the Paul Egan table, treating its members as figures of fun. Cyber-bullying ensued when embarrassing pictures of Paul at Hooter’s were passed around on iPhones. Paul called for blood—then called for more wine. Craig Allen, under the potent influence of Irish whiskey, limoncello, Rolling Rock and Cabernet, grabbed a rainbow-colored umbrella that hung over the hip table and tried to plant it over the Paul Egan table, obviously a strained attempt at “gay” humor. But the umbrella would not take root and kept flopping over in everyone’s face. Craig had to return it back to its original table with Paul calling after, “It’s not an umbrella, it’s a lifestyle choice!” redoubling the hilarity of the moment. The management of TJ’s came out on the deck, veiling its perturbation in the question, “Is everything alright?” The club felt itself duly warned and behaved for the rest of the evening.
The last week of Old Bucks (more particularly Saturday night) saw an egregious and uncharacteristic gaffe by player/GM Kenny Blankstein. “Uncharacteristic” because this one did not occur on the ice in his own end. As the Sunday night warriors arrived in the typical trickling fashion, it became apparent the game would feature Kenny G as the lone goaltender. When questioned about the cause of this breakdown in intersquad communication, Dr. Blankstein offered the following explanation, as blunt as it was eloquent:
“Eff off. This isn’t my full time job, you know.”
Indeed it is not. Still, his day job isn’t exactly curing cancer. (“Wait, he does what? Oh come on.”)
The players took to the ice under a cloud of deflation, disheartened by the fact that the game wouldn’t really “count”. Alex Cerbone was positively crestfallen and repeated, with a sad and detached look in his eyes: “No one told my dad….someone could have called, but no one told my dad…”. The game kicked off with Kenny G between the pipes for Blue and under orders to switch teams every thirty minutes. Benny Blankstein volunteered to provide some impromptu goaltending in front of the inverted Red net. What seemed at first a comical idea immediately began paying dividends as Benny made a number of improbable saves including a sprawling right knee block on a streaking Diaz. Mike Robbins opened the scoring for Red with a cross-ice low shot that caught daylight between Kenny’s pads, causing Ken to let out an early paint-peeling expletive. Paul Egan, who apparently is Canadian although he’s not mentioned that before, came afoul of some ice snakes near the Red bench and tumbled arse over teakettle, much to Red’s delight. It was that kind of start for Blue as George Schott, Eddie, and John Lupisella added tallies to build up an early Red lead, 4-0. Schott appears to have found his power game in the late stages of this season and Red will certainly be looking to him for continued production next season.
The Bassert boys were able to kick Blue’s offense into gear with two timely goals and narrow Red’s lead to 4-2 before Kenny G’s first thirty minute stint with Blue expired. With Ken now backstopping the Red net, Red shooters would need to ring their shots off the Blue iron to light the lamp. Blue temporarily kept their momentum rolling, invigorated by the opportunity to shoot on a goaltender and not a flailing Benny Blankstein. Paul Egan, atoning for his earlier blooper, cut off a Red breakout pass and jumped into transition with a strong drive down the left side. Only the sticky palms of a beaten Kenny Blankstein prevented Egan from capitalizing on his opportunistic read. Steve Sousa showed that his game is not all intimidation and finished off a dandy of a rush up the right side, culminating in a snapshot to the top-right corner. Alex Cerbone then finished off a loose puck on the doorstep, but at this point Red had discovered the unexpected ability to hit the post when actually intending. Dingers from Millen and Alan Blankstein helped Red gradually push the score to a soon-to-become unreachable 8-5.
The final twenty minutes of the game began to show the general disinterest that had pervaded the one-goalie game. Highlights became few and far between, save for a classic Huck Fairman left post slam dunk and a world class stop by Kenny G on a Robbins breakaway. Ken delivered an insincere “sorry Mike” as he covered up the loose puck with a sneer. With the clock now pushing 6:00, players began retiring to the locker rooms in sweeping numbers while the game devolved into a messy open ice session. Scorekeeping ended due to apathy and we can only conjecture Red won 11-7.
Post-game festivities migrated from TJ’s to Hooters as the attendees sought draft beer, wings, and the buxom charms of a world-renown wait staff. Bob Freiling, all the Blanksteins, Tim White, John Lupisella, Mike Robbins, Rich Devlin, and Paul Egan all met up under the glow of tacky 1990’s bar décor and orange spandex. Laughs were abundant as conversation topics ranged from worldly travel destinations, Old Bucks 2012 awards, why Buffalo isn’t a dump, and what the Drinking Club members were doing the year Mike was born. As the night came to a close for the second-to-last time, Mike Robbins, John Lupisella and Rich Devlin strolled over to Joe Canal’s with laughter filling the air, proving with the certainty of our heart’s numbered beats: matters of age are irrelevant amongst good company.
Sunday’s Game. By Jim Heffern
There was no fanfare to kick off Sunday’s game, the last game of the Old Bucks season, not even a sentimental gathering at center ice for a club photo to replace the two-megapixel daguerreotype that now graces the website. Both teams took the ice more out of routine than passion and the two goalies, Jamie and Vinnie, emerged from the locker rooms dazedly, a “time to make the donuts” trance in their eyes. If anyone showed enthusiasm for the game it was Saunders, and only because he was out to impress his new friend, Kelly, whom he had invited to the game. During warm-ups he flitted about the ice like a spring chicken, and with the pride of a bald eagle, peppered Jamie with shots.
Still both teams bent to their work, the planned gathering at TJ’s injecting a note of urgency into the game. Paul Egan, for one, was under doctor’s orders to apply “pizza therapy” to his torn stomach muscle whereby the muscle is distended by large amounts of cheese, increasing blood flow to the region and expediting the healing process. He skated for Blue, as is his wont, and fell right in with the plodding pace of the game. The game itself was a mundane affair. Red’s offense, for the most part, consisted of three goals, one by Mike Robbins, one by Jason Millen and one by Alan Blankstein. Otherwise it looked lost, not so much like the blind leading the blind as the slothful leading the somnolent. In contrast, Blue played like the defiant, unbowed runner-ups that they always have been and always will be. Credit Bob Freiling who had five goals on the night, four against the usually indomitable line of Millen, Millen and Fairman. Bobby was a pleasure to watch; he not only scores but does so with a gentleman’s polish that keeps the Old Bucks spirit fresh and lively. Sometimes you need that to remind yourself that Blue is not all flagrant checks at the blue line or slap shots that, like cannonballs, seek to mow down entire ranks of soldiers. Combine that with Saunders who, in deference to Kelly, had checked his Mr. Cranky Pants persona at the door, and Blue seemed almost likable. They certainly deserved to win the last game of the season. In addition to Bobby, Alex Cerbone had a hat trick, Saunders had one, Brian Urban had one and Diaz had one in Blue’s well-executed, but ultimately meaningless, 11-4 victory.
The after party first met and then surpassed expectations. Even Marty came off the DL to attend. Whatever light was saved for Daylight Savings the club squandered in unrestrained prodigality. Basically the club divided into two tables: the “hip” table and the Paul Egan table. The hip table had the club’s best, most sparkling personalities: Eddie, Craig Allen and Mike Robbins just to name a few, all holding court and surrounded by a standing-room only throng of gushing admirers and hangers-on. The Paul Egan table, in contrast, was sparsely attended by those whom you’d regard as “socially challenged”: Jim Heffern, Larry Johnson and most of all, Rich Devlin, who showed up wearing a medical boot because he had dislocated his pinky toe after stepping on a tennis ball. By accident, Marty found himself at the Paul Egan table. Out of politeness he tried to remain as long as possible but once Paul got to describing how a wine’s bouquet can vary from the center of the cup to its rim, Marty had reached his threshold for pretentious utterings and took his leave, telling Paul to stick a flower in his wine bottle “to make the table look nice”. But the Paul Egan table had one thing the hip table did not: Kelly, who was smart, engaging and Saunders’ complete opposite in every way. She did not mince words when passing judgment on Paul’s Arrowood Syrah (“I don’t like it”) and if Saunders had had any hair he would have yanked it out in frustration at how she lavished attention on everyone but him.
Soon the hip table was baiting the Paul Egan table, treating its members as figures of fun. Cyber-bullying ensued when embarrassing pictures of Paul at Hooter’s were passed around on iPhones. Paul called for blood—then called for more wine. Craig Allen, under the potent influence of Irish whiskey, limoncello, Rolling Rock and Cabernet, grabbed a rainbow-colored umbrella that hung over the hip table and tried to plant it over the Paul Egan table, obviously a strained attempt at “gay” humor. But the umbrella would not take root and kept flopping over in everyone’s face. Craig had to return it back to its original table with Paul calling after, “It’s not an umbrella, it’s a lifestyle choice!” redoubling the hilarity of the moment. The management of TJ’s came out on the deck, veiling its perturbation in the question, “Is everything alright?” The club felt itself duly warned and behaved for the rest of the evening.