Post by Jim H. on Oct 23, 2015 5:08:54 GMT -5
Week 6 was distinguished by the first frost of the season; it was cold and crow-filled skies hung over maples shedding their leaves to almost blowable levels. Old Bucks thrives in the cold and players came out, even Dave Hunt, though he’s still miffed that the rink painted an orange line around the ice just to create a zone where he isn’t allowed to hold anyone. Teams constituted themselves according to Kenny; nothing new to speak of, except that Mike Valenzano, who was just making a name for himself as a Blue forward, found himself back on Red and consigned to oblivion. Tenders were Eddie for Blue and Vinnie for Red, the latter decked out in orange, white and black head to toe as if some cast-off goalie from Flyers fantasy camp where a nice nickel will get you peppered with shots from Al MacAdam of the ’74 cup team. Red had one mission: to rise up from the ashes it was reduced to in Week 5. In other words: win. Optimism came cheap in the form of Bob Freiling, in whose talents Red reposed the most confidence. Then there was Brian Pike and Tim White—the heart and punch of the Red team—and Alan Blankstein, whose “Fear the Beard” reputation follows him everywhere, even to the oral argument of a mock trial. Greg Dougherty scored first for Blue, unassisted, and then Scott McCann, doing some nice pro bono work on behalf of the lawyer-to-be, set up Alan Blankstein for the game-tier. Then Scott himself scored, and negated a Brian Urban goal by scoring again and giving Red the 3-2 lead. No wonder Scott plays like he’s been downing Monster drinks all afternoon. He’s a marathoner with two Bostons under his belt. His constitution is probably more inured to fatigue than that of Paul Egan who’s been known to ride his bike 200 miles in a single day. In fact Scott compares Old Bucks games to mini Boston Marathons. Whenever he feels his energy flagging, he just imagines himself at Mile 8—downtown Wellesley—where the girls from the college line the street screaming and planting kisses on whatever runner they can get ahold of. That keeps him going well after other players have hit the wall—or the showers, or both. Speaking of which, Blue lost two ailing players by the half-way point, Rich Devlin and Matt Hunt, felled by the one of the numerous maladies Blue flesh is heir to: nervous headache, dizziness, nausea, panic attack, etc. Red obtained the two-man advantage but Paul Egan would have none of it, displaying a potent mixture of Zinfindel and dynamite, rearing back on one leg Flamingo-style and sending a guided missile over Vinnie’s blocker for the score. At 3-3 the balance trembled on the beam, first inclining one way and then the other. Bob Freiling broke the tie with vanity-flattering ease, darting through the neutral zone and right around a posse of three defenders before grazing a wrist shot off of Eddie’s glove for the score. Such easy pickings belied Blue’s effort, which was commendable, except for Jim Heffern who hasn’t been himself lately, overhandling the puck way too much, committing one horrendous turnover after another, not scoring on any of the breakaways he gets by hanging in the neutral zone—actually he HAS been himself, only worse. But that’s the way it is with Blue—sometime you get the players you need, sometimes the ones you deserve. Precious minutes slipped away. Dan Dougherty tied the game at fours and then Brian Urban caught Vinnie with his butterfly down to put Blue up 5-4. Both benches were completely on edge, nor was there any sign of a letup as the game progressed inexorably toward the after party. Scott McCann, who had just crested Heartbreak Hill at Mile 21 and now had an easy five-mile lope to the finish line, took advantage of a Blue team doubling back to Wellesley to troll for more kisses from the coeds. He broke up a play at the blue line, possessed himself of the puck and traversed the neutral zone as fast as he could skate. Pursuing him were Jim Heffern and Bill Yeoman like two mall cops chasing a gummy bear thief. Suffice it to say, Scott scored on a breakaway and the game was tied at fives. Then Paul Egan badly misplayed the puck and coughed it up to Tim White who, imitating Scott’s example, scored on a breakaway. The Red bench tittered with delight—up 6-5—but Blue did not surrender, showing a strength equal to its necessity. The Urban-Dougherty line—ancestral foes of the House of Blankstein—united by blood, animated by hope, spurred on by the clock reading 7:28, made a perfect three-rail billiard shot to squeak the puck past Vinnie for the game-tier. And so the game ended a scant two minutes later and both teams stacked arms for the night. The after party, incidentally, was well-attended and Hughie brought roasted chestnuts.