Post by Old Bucks Admin on Jan 23, 2009 9:10:20 GMT -5
Week 18 was more than a matchup of Red vs. Blue; it was Old Bucks vs. NFL Championship Sunday with Old Bucks falling smackdab in the middle of the Eagles-Cards game. With a paltry 16 skaters and two goalies on hand, football won hands down, even while making allowance for Rich Devlin, who was at the Garden for Bobblehead Mark Messier Night. Surprisingly, all but a smattering of Eagles fans chose to play hockey, echoing Eddie’s sentiment that, “Our Super Bowl was last Sunday.” Notably absent was Marty, whose son Brian, himself a former netminder of no small repute, donned the ponderous pads and drab gray pullover of his father, and took his place in the Red goal resembling the elder Urban to a T.
As the starting lineups awaited the initial puck drop with their positions as fixed as two armies drawn up for battle, some intriguing matchups came to light—Ned MacDowell vs. Rich Cerbone, for example, or Eddie vs. Bill Hamill, or Bill MacDowell vs. the entire Blue squad, which is not so one-sided when you consider Bill was packing both his pruning knife and numchucks. This was noble sport indeed, and even with reduced numbers provided drama in abundance. From Locker Room 3 Jim Heffern could literally smell the excitement, which he described as a cross between unwashed elbow pad and Really Old Spice. It was one game he regretted being late for.
The game started slow with most of the action taking place off the ice. Saunders broke with convention and allowed two of his female acquaintances onto the Blue bench—a raven-haired beauty and a flaxen-tressed peach, who between idle chitchat knocked back bottles of Amstel Light like it was no one’s business. Also on the bench was an unidentified female skater whose helmet cage only heightened her air of mystery, so much so that oglers on Blue hardly knew where to start ogling. Their only relief came when Saunders, after about a half hour playing hockey, departed with the two ladies, to where and for what purpose we dare not imagine. He left with no goals, no assists, and no reputation.
Both teams eventually got down to the business of scoring goals, their uninhibited style of play reflecting the tendency of short benches to break down team discipline and make the axiom “play your position” almost meaningless. Most of the time no one knew what his position was, or if he did, saw it change as the exigencies of the game demanded. Ned MacDowell, for one, was more like a free safety than a defenseman, rarely staying in his lane, preferring instead to traverse the ice like he was skiing a giant slalom course, with each gate represented by an opponent from whom he wished to take the puck. Those who opposed him paid the price, as Jim Heffern found out when the two of them tangled behind the Red goal and Jim hit the ice so hard residents of the prep school thought some sort of seismic event had taken place. He laid on the ice so long Kenny had to put orange cones around him just so play could continue.
The score was deadlocked 2-2 when Jim Heffern, still dazed and confused from his fall, tried to float one out of the Blue zone and it was intercepted by Eddie who threaded the puck between Vinnie and the post, making it 3-2 Red. Dan Dougherty tied it up at the 45 minute mark but then Red pulled ahead again on a goal by Steve Hendershott. This part of the game—4-3 Red—went on for a good 10-15 minutes and saw some of the best sparring of the night with both goalies at their best, waffling away wrist shots and butterflying the beejesus out of breakaways. As much as Blue took it to Brian Urban they were repelled like a battering ram before adamant or a raptor before a cardinal. Their hopes to tie the game were dashed when Hughie, playing wing-man for Red, uncorked a shot that Vinnie never saw, having lost it in the freaks of light and shadow that often plague the dark end of the rink. It was, hands down, Red’s most decisive goal in their 7-4 victory and Hughie deserves credit; nor will we begrudge him if months from now, when he’s sitting at home of a Saturday evening, drinking jug wine and watching “Slapshot 3: Junior Division” he recalls it with a self-congratulatory, “Dammit! I made a difference.”
As the starting lineups awaited the initial puck drop with their positions as fixed as two armies drawn up for battle, some intriguing matchups came to light—Ned MacDowell vs. Rich Cerbone, for example, or Eddie vs. Bill Hamill, or Bill MacDowell vs. the entire Blue squad, which is not so one-sided when you consider Bill was packing both his pruning knife and numchucks. This was noble sport indeed, and even with reduced numbers provided drama in abundance. From Locker Room 3 Jim Heffern could literally smell the excitement, which he described as a cross between unwashed elbow pad and Really Old Spice. It was one game he regretted being late for.
The game started slow with most of the action taking place off the ice. Saunders broke with convention and allowed two of his female acquaintances onto the Blue bench—a raven-haired beauty and a flaxen-tressed peach, who between idle chitchat knocked back bottles of Amstel Light like it was no one’s business. Also on the bench was an unidentified female skater whose helmet cage only heightened her air of mystery, so much so that oglers on Blue hardly knew where to start ogling. Their only relief came when Saunders, after about a half hour playing hockey, departed with the two ladies, to where and for what purpose we dare not imagine. He left with no goals, no assists, and no reputation.
Both teams eventually got down to the business of scoring goals, their uninhibited style of play reflecting the tendency of short benches to break down team discipline and make the axiom “play your position” almost meaningless. Most of the time no one knew what his position was, or if he did, saw it change as the exigencies of the game demanded. Ned MacDowell, for one, was more like a free safety than a defenseman, rarely staying in his lane, preferring instead to traverse the ice like he was skiing a giant slalom course, with each gate represented by an opponent from whom he wished to take the puck. Those who opposed him paid the price, as Jim Heffern found out when the two of them tangled behind the Red goal and Jim hit the ice so hard residents of the prep school thought some sort of seismic event had taken place. He laid on the ice so long Kenny had to put orange cones around him just so play could continue.
The score was deadlocked 2-2 when Jim Heffern, still dazed and confused from his fall, tried to float one out of the Blue zone and it was intercepted by Eddie who threaded the puck between Vinnie and the post, making it 3-2 Red. Dan Dougherty tied it up at the 45 minute mark but then Red pulled ahead again on a goal by Steve Hendershott. This part of the game—4-3 Red—went on for a good 10-15 minutes and saw some of the best sparring of the night with both goalies at their best, waffling away wrist shots and butterflying the beejesus out of breakaways. As much as Blue took it to Brian Urban they were repelled like a battering ram before adamant or a raptor before a cardinal. Their hopes to tie the game were dashed when Hughie, playing wing-man for Red, uncorked a shot that Vinnie never saw, having lost it in the freaks of light and shadow that often plague the dark end of the rink. It was, hands down, Red’s most decisive goal in their 7-4 victory and Hughie deserves credit; nor will we begrudge him if months from now, when he’s sitting at home of a Saturday evening, drinking jug wine and watching “Slapshot 3: Junior Division” he recalls it with a self-congratulatory, “Dammit! I made a difference.”
