Post by Jim H. on Dec 19, 2014 6:09:56 GMT -5
Week 15 saw some juggling in the lineups as players who rarely show up, like Dave Major, showed up; and players who always show up, like Paul Egan, didn’t. Paul, worn down by the physical austerities of the long distance biker, needed a break; Doug Rendell took his place on the Blue offense, released from his customary defenseman’s role by a foursome that ran the gamut from Souza to Cerbone. Significantly Andrew Bassert was back, giving Blue both Bassert brothers for the first time in weeks—and Kenny a pretext for snapping up the new guy, Scott McCann, a move long anticipated by Blue ever since Scott’s flashy play debuted in Week 13. It was typical Red hypocrisy: one week they’re making fun of the guy because, after each game, he fastidiously wraps each piece of equipment in its own protective hosiery bag; the next week they’re asking him, “won’t you guide our sleigh tonight?” Anyway, Red’s multi-pronged offense needed a substitute prong in lieu of the missing Bob Freiling—and Scott fit the bill.
Red went briskly to work, putting Hughie on right wing and tricking Blue into ignoring him as a decoy. This allowed Hughie to skate, unperceived, right up to the mouth of the goal and idle there unmolested until Scott McCann hit him with a cross-ice pass which he easily put in the net, much to the perplexity of goalie, Eddie. “Two can play that game,” was Blue’s response as Doug Rendell, the archetypical stay-at-home defenseman in his first venture across center ice since 1998, slowly inched his way forward, evading detection until a chance rebound nestled itself on his stick and he tied the game at ones, going from “rear echelon boy” to “Navy SEAL” in one fell swoop. Blue went up 2-1 when John Lupisella made an errant pass in the neutral zone that Brian Urban scooped up and, breaking for the Red goal, decked out Eddie on defense and Kenny G. in goal. Red tied it when Jonathan Millen, more a conduit than a scorer lately, hit Dan Dougherty with a pass who in a faint echo of Martin St. Louis backhanded it past Eddie, singeing his jersey with puck and leaving an ugly black streak. Great exertions and numerous goals later Red commanded a 6-4 lead and had Blue completely bottled up, notwithstanding the furor with which Blue fought. As chance would have it Red lost two key players at this juncture; first Brian Pike, compelled by duty to play a 7 p.m. game at Iceland; then Brooks Herr, compelled by dad, Mark, who in an effort to save effort made the early trek back to locker room 3. This changed the whole complexion of the game. No longer was Blue doing immortal deeds against impossible odds. Now they could just play their game with odds very much in their favor. Sure enough, goal succeeded goal—the steady drumbeat of Blue pride. Steve Souza launched one from the point that bounced off Kenny G.’s chest protector and onto the stick of Dave Bassert, who buried it. Jim Heffern poured in three successive goals, wielding an Easton Synergy stick whose patented technology can make a crack marksman out of a player who normally couldn’t hit the broad side of a UPS truck. Red still kept pace with Blue with goals by Dan Dougherty and Chris DePace. But Hughie mugged Brian Urban on a breakaway and made an instant act of contrition by awarding him a penalty shot. This Brian converted, giving Blue the 10-9 lead with the game clock ticking down and the fate of Blue’s two-game winning streak hanging in the balance. Then Eddie (the defenseman, not the goalie) out of nowhere dashed the length of the ice and burned Eddie (the goalie, not the defenseman) with a laser of a wrist shot, tying the game at the 7:28 mark. Great was the melee in front of the Blue goal a scant two minutes later, both teams fighting with the utmost obstinacy, “shield against shield” neither willing to give quarter to other until obliged to by the zamboni driver, nowhere in sight. Only Brian Urban, on Blue, stayed above the fray, hovering about the blue line, ready to make a break for it as soon as the chance arose. Credit Rich Devlin and his unflinching tenacity for seizing the puck just long enough to send Brian a tape-to-tape outlet with which Brian split the two defensemen, Hughie and Kenny, got the breakaway and scored the game-winner at 7:31, just in time for the zam driver to throw the latch and call the game. Both teams filed off the ice, except Dave Bassert, who stayed long enough to strike a few martial poses for his girlfriend, draped in a big fleecy blanket and clicking away with her tablet from behind the glass.
The after party was not well-attended with the absence of Paul Egan putting a damper on things. What it lacked in people, however, it made up for in free cheesesteak pizza, given by TJ’s after an ordering snafu. The pizza was a marvel of gastronomic ecstasy, blanketed by cheese and heaps of that darkish-looking meat that purportedly comes from a cow. No sooner was it put in front of the club than its pan became the blank receptacle for crumpled up, greasy napkins. Kenny and Hughie held a symposium on “Glock vs. Beretta: Which is more lethal?”—normal shop talk for a society that is slowly imploding as its police forces are demonized and lawlessness gets elevated to a cardinal virtue. Saunders showed up half way through even though he didn’t play in the game. He was in the neighborhood and stopped by, expecting TJ’s to be jumpin’ like a Hottentott hootenanny, with a big holiday crowd and bottles of whisky, spiced rum, several varieties of wine and brewskies dotting the tables, all of which presided over by that rollicking raconteur of a foreigner, Paul Egan, telling for the umpteenth time how he was in Vegas on business and after a night of sampling its many diversions, all the while checking any impulse that might deviate into immoderate behavior—shared a cab with a member of the the Blue Man Group. Visibly deflated by the pedestrian company—B listers to a man—Saunders mooched a beer off Jim Heffern and retired to a booth with John Lupisella where they proceeded to huddle over an iPhone, scrolling through its touchscreen and whispering between themselves confidentially as if they had happened upon a trove of Kenny’s e-mails, hacked by the North Koreans, in which he reveals, among other things, that he wishes he didn’t have to play so much defense with Hughie because it makes him look bad. The party ebbed to a close with the hope that Week 16’s might be a little more festive.
Red went briskly to work, putting Hughie on right wing and tricking Blue into ignoring him as a decoy. This allowed Hughie to skate, unperceived, right up to the mouth of the goal and idle there unmolested until Scott McCann hit him with a cross-ice pass which he easily put in the net, much to the perplexity of goalie, Eddie. “Two can play that game,” was Blue’s response as Doug Rendell, the archetypical stay-at-home defenseman in his first venture across center ice since 1998, slowly inched his way forward, evading detection until a chance rebound nestled itself on his stick and he tied the game at ones, going from “rear echelon boy” to “Navy SEAL” in one fell swoop. Blue went up 2-1 when John Lupisella made an errant pass in the neutral zone that Brian Urban scooped up and, breaking for the Red goal, decked out Eddie on defense and Kenny G. in goal. Red tied it when Jonathan Millen, more a conduit than a scorer lately, hit Dan Dougherty with a pass who in a faint echo of Martin St. Louis backhanded it past Eddie, singeing his jersey with puck and leaving an ugly black streak. Great exertions and numerous goals later Red commanded a 6-4 lead and had Blue completely bottled up, notwithstanding the furor with which Blue fought. As chance would have it Red lost two key players at this juncture; first Brian Pike, compelled by duty to play a 7 p.m. game at Iceland; then Brooks Herr, compelled by dad, Mark, who in an effort to save effort made the early trek back to locker room 3. This changed the whole complexion of the game. No longer was Blue doing immortal deeds against impossible odds. Now they could just play their game with odds very much in their favor. Sure enough, goal succeeded goal—the steady drumbeat of Blue pride. Steve Souza launched one from the point that bounced off Kenny G.’s chest protector and onto the stick of Dave Bassert, who buried it. Jim Heffern poured in three successive goals, wielding an Easton Synergy stick whose patented technology can make a crack marksman out of a player who normally couldn’t hit the broad side of a UPS truck. Red still kept pace with Blue with goals by Dan Dougherty and Chris DePace. But Hughie mugged Brian Urban on a breakaway and made an instant act of contrition by awarding him a penalty shot. This Brian converted, giving Blue the 10-9 lead with the game clock ticking down and the fate of Blue’s two-game winning streak hanging in the balance. Then Eddie (the defenseman, not the goalie) out of nowhere dashed the length of the ice and burned Eddie (the goalie, not the defenseman) with a laser of a wrist shot, tying the game at the 7:28 mark. Great was the melee in front of the Blue goal a scant two minutes later, both teams fighting with the utmost obstinacy, “shield against shield” neither willing to give quarter to other until obliged to by the zamboni driver, nowhere in sight. Only Brian Urban, on Blue, stayed above the fray, hovering about the blue line, ready to make a break for it as soon as the chance arose. Credit Rich Devlin and his unflinching tenacity for seizing the puck just long enough to send Brian a tape-to-tape outlet with which Brian split the two defensemen, Hughie and Kenny, got the breakaway and scored the game-winner at 7:31, just in time for the zam driver to throw the latch and call the game. Both teams filed off the ice, except Dave Bassert, who stayed long enough to strike a few martial poses for his girlfriend, draped in a big fleecy blanket and clicking away with her tablet from behind the glass.
The after party was not well-attended with the absence of Paul Egan putting a damper on things. What it lacked in people, however, it made up for in free cheesesteak pizza, given by TJ’s after an ordering snafu. The pizza was a marvel of gastronomic ecstasy, blanketed by cheese and heaps of that darkish-looking meat that purportedly comes from a cow. No sooner was it put in front of the club than its pan became the blank receptacle for crumpled up, greasy napkins. Kenny and Hughie held a symposium on “Glock vs. Beretta: Which is more lethal?”—normal shop talk for a society that is slowly imploding as its police forces are demonized and lawlessness gets elevated to a cardinal virtue. Saunders showed up half way through even though he didn’t play in the game. He was in the neighborhood and stopped by, expecting TJ’s to be jumpin’ like a Hottentott hootenanny, with a big holiday crowd and bottles of whisky, spiced rum, several varieties of wine and brewskies dotting the tables, all of which presided over by that rollicking raconteur of a foreigner, Paul Egan, telling for the umpteenth time how he was in Vegas on business and after a night of sampling its many diversions, all the while checking any impulse that might deviate into immoderate behavior—shared a cab with a member of the the Blue Man Group. Visibly deflated by the pedestrian company—B listers to a man—Saunders mooched a beer off Jim Heffern and retired to a booth with John Lupisella where they proceeded to huddle over an iPhone, scrolling through its touchscreen and whispering between themselves confidentially as if they had happened upon a trove of Kenny’s e-mails, hacked by the North Koreans, in which he reveals, among other things, that he wishes he didn’t have to play so much defense with Hughie because it makes him look bad. The party ebbed to a close with the hope that Week 16’s might be a little more festive.