Post by Old Bucks Admin on Oct 26, 2012 5:24:34 GMT -5
Week 7 was big, almost epoch-making, in what transpired. Old Bucks will never be the same as over forty years of scorekeeping tradition was discarded in favor of so-called “accuracy”. That’s right, a person will no longer be relied upon to tally goals during a game; instead after every goal the puck will be left in the net and a new puck inserted into the game. At game’s end, the pucks in each net will be counted and a winner declared. How this came about, we don’t know; we can only imagine a smoke-filled locker room and a secret conclave presided over by Kenny. The club’s putative scorekeeper, Jim Heffern, who thanklessly performed the task for over five years, wasn’t even informed of the decision, learning of the change, like most others, during the game when the first goal was scored. A much maligned figure, often accused of duplicity, incompetence, or both, Jim dismissed the accuracy of the new method, saying a discreetly placed mirror in the net could literally double the tally. He gloatingly anticipated the first time a controversial goal is scored, painting a scene of one team arguing the stick was not above the shoulder, there was no distinctive kicking motion, or Kenny G. had not yelled “Got it!” in time; while the other team, with a kind of relish that is indistinguishable from contempt, retrieves the puck from the net and puts it back in play over the first team’s loud protestations. “Should do wonders for club chemistry,” Jim predicted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
There was a good turnout, giving the lie to the saying, “Nobody plays Old Bucks anymore. The benches are too crowded.” A few whom we haven’t seen for a week or two were back: Doug Rendell, Larry Johnson, John Quirinale. Lineups were also tweaked a bit, with Hughie worming his way back into Kenny’s good graces and getting himself reinstated as Red defenseman. This proved costly to Craig Allen who was relegated to offense and finally got to see “how the other half skates”. It was a harsh comedown but Craig complemented the lines well, balancing the game’s galloping pace with his own distinctive canter. At 6:15 p.m. it was High Noon on the ice and the showdown began, Marty in goal for Red and Rich Cerbone for Blue. A 2-2 tie ensued with Red goals by Jonathan Millen and the yet-to-be-named son of Bob F. countered by Alex Cerbone vaulting and swooping his way around the Red defense for two goals of his own. As for the new scorekeeping system, the bucket of replacement pucks was kept on the Blue bench who, unused to the change, kept having to be reminded to “Throw out a new puck!” after every goal, a lapse in attention that grew annoying over time. Hopefully this won’t become a pattern that interrupts the flow of the game.
Two old-timers, Jim Heffern and Craig Allen, traded goals to tie the game at three’s (how apt with their 30th high school reunion just one month away). At this juncture Bob Freiling provided the bulk of Red’s offense, scoring three goals in between rants directed at his son like, “Shorter shifts! You look like Mike Robbins out there,” and “Stop passing to John Lupisella. Use your head for once!” That Larry Johnson and Dr. Millen also scored might give the impression Red had the game in hand; but they decidedly didn’t as Alex Cerbone, after bagging two more goals, yielded the stage to the Bassert brothers who were almost mechanistic in their dismantling of the Red defense. “Game changers ‘R Us” could have been their moniker that night as they waged war against Red like combatants of the true cast, turning the Red goal into their personal puck depository and, for good measure, engaging dad in a heated argument over who’s to blame for a turnover that Bob Freiling cashed in for hat trick gold. Nor were these the only tempers that rose as Dave Hunt hooked Dr. Millen just as he was about to digest one of those juicy rebounds that are the staple of his diet; we can’t blame Dr. Millen for balling out the Blue bench as Hunt’s willing accomplices; he’s a finesse player and should be above that sort of treatment.
During crunch time it was surmised Blue had a slight edge score-wise with Rich Cerbone guarding its goal as jealously as a dragon guards its cave. Reflexively, Jim Heffern was still asked what the score was but he’d sulkily reply, “Don’t ask me. I’m not trustworthy.” Red regathered their strength for one last assault, closing their ranks and fighting tooth and nail for the puck. Craig Allen was right there, skating as if a heavy weight were tied to his legs, looking like Honey Boo Boo denied her Red Bull/Mountain Dew fix, wishing once again he could loll in the neutral zone and idle away entire shifts at the blue line; yet he still found the strength to plunge headlong into the slot and, putting the puck on his stick, put it thence into the goal. But it was “too Allen, too late” as the game ended and a puck count gave Blue the 10-9 victory. The score was inarguable and a new dictum was coined, “The nets don’t lie.”
After the game you could have heard a pin drop in locker room 3 as light-hearted post-game chatter was nonexistent, supplanted instead by a long awkward silence. The club seemed to be grappling with its lost innocence as the new scorekeeping method threw into glaring relief a “win-at-all-costs” mentality so at odds with the true Old Bucks spirit of gentlemanly fun. It seemed light-years ago that the score of the game was only nominally kept, the benches were not divided into offense and defense, and the entire club gathered for beers afterwards. In keeping with this dour mood, the after party was sparsely attended by Jim Heffern, Rich Devlin, John Lupisella and Hughie. The pizza was depressingly bad, so liquefied that by the time the slice was moved from the pan to the mouth it was no more than bread with a fine tomatoey glaze, the rest having slid off like chunks of ice from a slate roof. But Obama’s ears must have been ringing for the conversation was all about him, and the opprobrium heaped upon him was thicker than the cheese wallowing in the pan. Is there any surprise? John Lupisella was born and raised in Jack Kemp country and can’t help but be a die-hard Republican; Rich Devlin’s an unabashed one-percenter, throwing down five dollar bills for pizza like he’s signing chits at his golf club; Hughie’s one of the few public employees who doesn’t game the system, his accumulation of 300 sick days notwithstanding, and even dusted off an old Kitty Dukakis joke during a tirade culled straight from the birther handbook; Jim Heffern may be silent, but he’s hardly inscrutable; indeed, his whole face is a mask of assent. If there’s any Obama supporter in the club, the after party needs you desperately.
There was a good turnout, giving the lie to the saying, “Nobody plays Old Bucks anymore. The benches are too crowded.” A few whom we haven’t seen for a week or two were back: Doug Rendell, Larry Johnson, John Quirinale. Lineups were also tweaked a bit, with Hughie worming his way back into Kenny’s good graces and getting himself reinstated as Red defenseman. This proved costly to Craig Allen who was relegated to offense and finally got to see “how the other half skates”. It was a harsh comedown but Craig complemented the lines well, balancing the game’s galloping pace with his own distinctive canter. At 6:15 p.m. it was High Noon on the ice and the showdown began, Marty in goal for Red and Rich Cerbone for Blue. A 2-2 tie ensued with Red goals by Jonathan Millen and the yet-to-be-named son of Bob F. countered by Alex Cerbone vaulting and swooping his way around the Red defense for two goals of his own. As for the new scorekeeping system, the bucket of replacement pucks was kept on the Blue bench who, unused to the change, kept having to be reminded to “Throw out a new puck!” after every goal, a lapse in attention that grew annoying over time. Hopefully this won’t become a pattern that interrupts the flow of the game.
Two old-timers, Jim Heffern and Craig Allen, traded goals to tie the game at three’s (how apt with their 30th high school reunion just one month away). At this juncture Bob Freiling provided the bulk of Red’s offense, scoring three goals in between rants directed at his son like, “Shorter shifts! You look like Mike Robbins out there,” and “Stop passing to John Lupisella. Use your head for once!” That Larry Johnson and Dr. Millen also scored might give the impression Red had the game in hand; but they decidedly didn’t as Alex Cerbone, after bagging two more goals, yielded the stage to the Bassert brothers who were almost mechanistic in their dismantling of the Red defense. “Game changers ‘R Us” could have been their moniker that night as they waged war against Red like combatants of the true cast, turning the Red goal into their personal puck depository and, for good measure, engaging dad in a heated argument over who’s to blame for a turnover that Bob Freiling cashed in for hat trick gold. Nor were these the only tempers that rose as Dave Hunt hooked Dr. Millen just as he was about to digest one of those juicy rebounds that are the staple of his diet; we can’t blame Dr. Millen for balling out the Blue bench as Hunt’s willing accomplices; he’s a finesse player and should be above that sort of treatment.
During crunch time it was surmised Blue had a slight edge score-wise with Rich Cerbone guarding its goal as jealously as a dragon guards its cave. Reflexively, Jim Heffern was still asked what the score was but he’d sulkily reply, “Don’t ask me. I’m not trustworthy.” Red regathered their strength for one last assault, closing their ranks and fighting tooth and nail for the puck. Craig Allen was right there, skating as if a heavy weight were tied to his legs, looking like Honey Boo Boo denied her Red Bull/Mountain Dew fix, wishing once again he could loll in the neutral zone and idle away entire shifts at the blue line; yet he still found the strength to plunge headlong into the slot and, putting the puck on his stick, put it thence into the goal. But it was “too Allen, too late” as the game ended and a puck count gave Blue the 10-9 victory. The score was inarguable and a new dictum was coined, “The nets don’t lie.”
After the game you could have heard a pin drop in locker room 3 as light-hearted post-game chatter was nonexistent, supplanted instead by a long awkward silence. The club seemed to be grappling with its lost innocence as the new scorekeeping method threw into glaring relief a “win-at-all-costs” mentality so at odds with the true Old Bucks spirit of gentlemanly fun. It seemed light-years ago that the score of the game was only nominally kept, the benches were not divided into offense and defense, and the entire club gathered for beers afterwards. In keeping with this dour mood, the after party was sparsely attended by Jim Heffern, Rich Devlin, John Lupisella and Hughie. The pizza was depressingly bad, so liquefied that by the time the slice was moved from the pan to the mouth it was no more than bread with a fine tomatoey glaze, the rest having slid off like chunks of ice from a slate roof. But Obama’s ears must have been ringing for the conversation was all about him, and the opprobrium heaped upon him was thicker than the cheese wallowing in the pan. Is there any surprise? John Lupisella was born and raised in Jack Kemp country and can’t help but be a die-hard Republican; Rich Devlin’s an unabashed one-percenter, throwing down five dollar bills for pizza like he’s signing chits at his golf club; Hughie’s one of the few public employees who doesn’t game the system, his accumulation of 300 sick days notwithstanding, and even dusted off an old Kitty Dukakis joke during a tirade culled straight from the birther handbook; Jim Heffern may be silent, but he’s hardly inscrutable; indeed, his whole face is a mask of assent. If there’s any Obama supporter in the club, the after party needs you desperately.