Post by Old Bucks Admin on Apr 2, 2009 8:52:46 GMT -5
One thing you can say about Old Bucks hockey is that it never gets old. Even Week 26--the last week of the season--radiated drama, as if there was something still at stake, whether it was Red's pride or Blue's belief that their crown of glory was still two jewels short. Friday's game especially was fraught with incident and probably would have turned violent had not the pending party weighed on everyone's conscience, keeping both tempers and fisticuffs in check. Also, no one wanted his dark side captured on film by John Lupisella, who was busily photographing the game, a result of having not brought any equipment, being unaware the club had gathered to do anything else beside eat food and drink beer. Red jumped out to a 4-0 lead with Jim Heffern scoring the first two goals and Greg Wright the next two, and Vinnie lamenting his rotten luck which seemed to have saddled him with another losing team. The game had that feel to it, like Red was going to run Blue right out of the rink. Red even gambled a little, putting Bill MacDowell back on defense, letting Kenny pinch whenever he wanted to, conceding several noncalls to Blue that normally would have had them crying foul at the top of their lungs, and even letting Marty take a bathroom break without stopping the game. Such was the state of things when Jim Heffern left the bench to attend to his crying three-year old, which disrupted team chemistry so badly that Blue came storming back, scoring five goals in the span of three shifts, three of them by Rich Devlin, whose status as a mere blip on Red’s radar masked the destructive power of a stealth bomber. His third goal deserves special description for it was a running slapshot from just inside the blue line that one-hopped into the net with a trajectory you’d need a Ph.D. in non-Euclidean geometry to explain. From that point on Red was playing catch-up, their once-bold style of play ensnarled in a web of doubt and fear. Goading them onward was Bob Freiling, who stood on their bench still in his work clothes. Like any good armchair general, he focused on belittling the troops, especially Hughie, whom he said moved slower than a statue, then slower than a manikin, then slower than those guys who stand outside malls holding up going out of business clearance sale signs. The score was 7-5 Blue when Hughie decided to show Bob what’s what and banged one home from the slot, thus bringing Red to the brink of tying the game. Then we saw why Marty is always raising welts on the back of Craig Allen’s legs with his goalie stick. Red had just recovered the puck in their zone and Blue began to fall back on defense. Craig had possession but he was moving like one of those kids in an egg and sthingy race who is completely tensed up from fear of dropping his precious cargo. Dan Dougherty scented a steal and wheeled about, challenging him and stripping him of the puck. Blue pressed the attack and moments later Steve Thomas scored what became the game’s final goal, giving Blue the 8-6 victory. Craig made sure he was out of Marty’s reach before patting his chest and making the universal sign for “my bad.” At the other end of the ice Vinnie couldn’t believe it. It was the only game of the year where he was the beneficiary of a come-from-behind win.
The party afterward was excellent in every respect except that, to save money, Kenny cancelled the open bar and sherbet kiosk. Angie conducted the awards ceremony with his usual wry sense of humor but because of the snack bar’s poor acoustics we only managed to catch the half of it. Saunders got the “Mike the Czech Award” which seemed to flatter his self-importance even more than the “Limp Stick Award”, as if he was being commended for his stamina and perseverance rather than lamthingyed for an ability to loiter and play hockey at the same time. Kip Thomas got the “Hole in the Stick Award” which he justified in a long-winded speech on how his Bauer stick is so eco-friendly that the surface area of the blade is only half that of a normal blade, which saves trees of course--a claim met with more jeers than applause. Jim Heffern got the “Hanger Award” which, we believe, was so long overdue it had the feel of one of those career Oscars they give out in grand, sentimental fashion to actors who have a history of getting snubbed. He also received the MVP award as the player who most personified the spirit of Old Bucks hockey, whether it was showing up to every game 10 minutes late, avoiding defense wherever possible, or flouting the “no bottles in the locker room” rule. He said he planned to hang the award over the mantle of his new house, at least until he moved his long-horned steer skull down from the old one.
On Saturday night we struck out for the far-flung reaches of Bucks County and attended Bill MacDowell’s annual bonfire which, we understand, is a tradition going back two decades. We were told to turn at a driveway marked by the sign “Hilltop House” and immediately pictured a gloomy, ivy-covered mansion of the kind that figured in old British horror films of the 1960s with titles like “The Legend of Hilltop House”. Instead we found just the opposite—a modest stone house perched on the brow of a large hill overlooking a picturesque valley and flanked by the orchard and pond so familiar to Old Bucks members. The scene was so quintessentially Bucks County we were surprised not to see a herd of stag grazing in the distance, the largest and most ornately antlered among them vying with Bill for the title, “Lord of the Realm”. We drove around a circular driveway that fronted the house and were met by a distinguished-looking gentleman of late middle years who guided us into the grass next to several other parked cars, his hand clasping a bottle of beer like the baton of a traffic cop. From there a row of torches led us through the orchard and down to the site of the bonfire, not yet lit, but well marked by a crowd of people and the smoke from two grills.
Our sense of propriety checked the impulse to head straight for the beer bins, and instead we wandered among the guests, trying to spot familiar faces, but mostly going unnoticed except for a few compact, but friendly nods from strangers whose gaze we happened to catch. People were arriving in three’s and four’s by now and we discreetly made for the larger of two Styrofoam coolers from which we plucked a bottle of Stella Artois and then searched, perforce, for a bottle opener which we found nearby on a table stocked with wine.
Only thus situated, with beer in hand, did we consider ourselves in the right frame of mind to behold the night’s main attraction—the burn pile. “Big” was the word that naturally leapt to mind. Aside from a year’s worth of cuttings from the orchard, including roots, branches, brush, sticks and the like, all mounded to the size of small house, we saw what we regarded as enough inorganic material to make up a small yard sale: sticks of furniture, for example, the gilt frame of a mirror, a couple of hockey sticks, a doghouse, one leaf of a ping pong table, and most conspicuously—an old rowboat whose stern was plastered with a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker. If we didn’t know Bill personally we would have thought this giant edifice the creation of a pyromaniac, or at least someone with a serious fetish for heat. At any rate, it was easy for us to see why burning such a large pile of debris was not some solitary pastime, like scrimshaw, but an event that demanded the attention of a large, festive audience.
Lighting the bonfire was a ceremony in and of itself. It began with one MacDowell brother, Ned, driving a blue Ford front-end loader up to the pile and then extending the other brother, Doug, who was perched in its bucket, as far out over the pile as possible. Doug then doused the pile with some type of accelerant, but whether it was gasoline, diesel fuel, or apple jack we couldn’t tell. Ignition was done by means of a Roman candle, fired from a distance by a youngster, perhaps some member of the family who had earned this honor by high marks at school, or some other laudable achievement. The first fiery projectile overshot the target by so much that it threatened to set ablaze some nearby scrub, only Bill extinguished it with a garden hose, which he held at the ready by order of the fire department. The rest of the shots found their mark and soon the fire was crackling to life, fitfully at first, but then spreading with unusual speed, as fires are wont to do when fed what is essentially a big tinder box stuffed with kindling.
Everyone drew back from the heat as the fire reached it maximum intensity, and a kind of mute awe overtook them, so towering were the flames, and so lavish the amount of sparks that flew off into the night sky. Even we became lost in a reverie and could have imagined ourselves part of some ancient Druid ritual heralding the approaching equinox had not the sight of Bill wetting down nearby trees with his garden hose reminded us of what millennium we were in. Also breaking the spell, a person standing next to us volunteered the information that at this stage of the fire last year, a rabbit bounded out from the flames and disappeared into a hedgerow in a tiny plume of smoke. We tried to imagine the odds of the same thing happening again and wondered if Bill would have time to react with his garden hose. Having seen his reflexes on the ice, we had no doubt the hypothetical rabbit stood a good chance of being saved.
Soon bags of marshmallows were brought out and their contents dispensed to children avid for the opportunity, for once, to play with fire. Two precautions were taken: the marshmallows were stuck on the end of sticks so long one needed a spyglass to see their doneness, and the children were told not to place them in the fire itself, but on a pile of glowing cinders several paces removed from the fire. A few adults also roasted marshmallows but we did not join them as the only food we like to eat blackened is tuna. By this time we were chatting it up with Rich Devlin and John Lupisella, who had come with their families, and represented the only other club members we saw that night.
At length we took our leave of Bill, interrupting him while he spoke with one of his former tenants with whom he was sharing memories of Hilltop House “back in the day”. Of our many compliments we put special emphasis on the food, which was delicious—two kinds of sausage, hotdogs, and chili so hot it made our fillings sizzle. We sampled it all and as for the Stella Artois, one beer was hardly enough. Suffice it to say, we left the bonfire light-headed, but heavier everywhere else.
Sunday’s game was billed as Red’s last stand, and stand they did, winning 7-5 on four goals by Jim Heffern and three by Greg Wright. Blue did not play like the champions they were, but neither did they throw the game with a weak effort, especially players like Brian Urban and Art Rosebaum who had two goals apiece, and Rich Devlin, who adroitly turned Hughie’s right flank before beating Vinnie “mono y mono”. Fittingly, the game ended on a crotchety note when Greg Wright, beautifully set up with a pass from Bill MacDowell, caught Marty fiddling with one of his unruly chest protector straps, and slapped one into the far corner of the net. There was still five minutes of ice time left, but Marty stomped off the ice anyway, too disgusted with his team’s effort to continue.
The mood in the locker room was anything but crotchety. There was a whole tubful of Miller Lites left over from Friday night, and people dug in, determined not to see it go to waste. Even after an hour about twelve people remained, subdivided into groups of three and four, and holding conversations that were as clamorous as any jam-packed bar at happy hour. There was still plenty of Miller Lite left—perhaps enough to last another hour—when, on the dot of 9:45 the door burst open and in strode Tony Valerio due for a 10 o’clock game. It was like a bounty hunter bursting in on a den of fugitives, and everyone bolted, not wanting to find out if he was packing his 9mm. As endings go, it was rather unceremonious, but at least Mike Dougherty saved the Miller Lite which, we trust, will be brought back in lieu of champagne to christen the summer season.
The party afterward was excellent in every respect except that, to save money, Kenny cancelled the open bar and sherbet kiosk. Angie conducted the awards ceremony with his usual wry sense of humor but because of the snack bar’s poor acoustics we only managed to catch the half of it. Saunders got the “Mike the Czech Award” which seemed to flatter his self-importance even more than the “Limp Stick Award”, as if he was being commended for his stamina and perseverance rather than lamthingyed for an ability to loiter and play hockey at the same time. Kip Thomas got the “Hole in the Stick Award” which he justified in a long-winded speech on how his Bauer stick is so eco-friendly that the surface area of the blade is only half that of a normal blade, which saves trees of course--a claim met with more jeers than applause. Jim Heffern got the “Hanger Award” which, we believe, was so long overdue it had the feel of one of those career Oscars they give out in grand, sentimental fashion to actors who have a history of getting snubbed. He also received the MVP award as the player who most personified the spirit of Old Bucks hockey, whether it was showing up to every game 10 minutes late, avoiding defense wherever possible, or flouting the “no bottles in the locker room” rule. He said he planned to hang the award over the mantle of his new house, at least until he moved his long-horned steer skull down from the old one.
On Saturday night we struck out for the far-flung reaches of Bucks County and attended Bill MacDowell’s annual bonfire which, we understand, is a tradition going back two decades. We were told to turn at a driveway marked by the sign “Hilltop House” and immediately pictured a gloomy, ivy-covered mansion of the kind that figured in old British horror films of the 1960s with titles like “The Legend of Hilltop House”. Instead we found just the opposite—a modest stone house perched on the brow of a large hill overlooking a picturesque valley and flanked by the orchard and pond so familiar to Old Bucks members. The scene was so quintessentially Bucks County we were surprised not to see a herd of stag grazing in the distance, the largest and most ornately antlered among them vying with Bill for the title, “Lord of the Realm”. We drove around a circular driveway that fronted the house and were met by a distinguished-looking gentleman of late middle years who guided us into the grass next to several other parked cars, his hand clasping a bottle of beer like the baton of a traffic cop. From there a row of torches led us through the orchard and down to the site of the bonfire, not yet lit, but well marked by a crowd of people and the smoke from two grills.
Our sense of propriety checked the impulse to head straight for the beer bins, and instead we wandered among the guests, trying to spot familiar faces, but mostly going unnoticed except for a few compact, but friendly nods from strangers whose gaze we happened to catch. People were arriving in three’s and four’s by now and we discreetly made for the larger of two Styrofoam coolers from which we plucked a bottle of Stella Artois and then searched, perforce, for a bottle opener which we found nearby on a table stocked with wine.
Only thus situated, with beer in hand, did we consider ourselves in the right frame of mind to behold the night’s main attraction—the burn pile. “Big” was the word that naturally leapt to mind. Aside from a year’s worth of cuttings from the orchard, including roots, branches, brush, sticks and the like, all mounded to the size of small house, we saw what we regarded as enough inorganic material to make up a small yard sale: sticks of furniture, for example, the gilt frame of a mirror, a couple of hockey sticks, a doghouse, one leaf of a ping pong table, and most conspicuously—an old rowboat whose stern was plastered with a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker. If we didn’t know Bill personally we would have thought this giant edifice the creation of a pyromaniac, or at least someone with a serious fetish for heat. At any rate, it was easy for us to see why burning such a large pile of debris was not some solitary pastime, like scrimshaw, but an event that demanded the attention of a large, festive audience.
Lighting the bonfire was a ceremony in and of itself. It began with one MacDowell brother, Ned, driving a blue Ford front-end loader up to the pile and then extending the other brother, Doug, who was perched in its bucket, as far out over the pile as possible. Doug then doused the pile with some type of accelerant, but whether it was gasoline, diesel fuel, or apple jack we couldn’t tell. Ignition was done by means of a Roman candle, fired from a distance by a youngster, perhaps some member of the family who had earned this honor by high marks at school, or some other laudable achievement. The first fiery projectile overshot the target by so much that it threatened to set ablaze some nearby scrub, only Bill extinguished it with a garden hose, which he held at the ready by order of the fire department. The rest of the shots found their mark and soon the fire was crackling to life, fitfully at first, but then spreading with unusual speed, as fires are wont to do when fed what is essentially a big tinder box stuffed with kindling.
Everyone drew back from the heat as the fire reached it maximum intensity, and a kind of mute awe overtook them, so towering were the flames, and so lavish the amount of sparks that flew off into the night sky. Even we became lost in a reverie and could have imagined ourselves part of some ancient Druid ritual heralding the approaching equinox had not the sight of Bill wetting down nearby trees with his garden hose reminded us of what millennium we were in. Also breaking the spell, a person standing next to us volunteered the information that at this stage of the fire last year, a rabbit bounded out from the flames and disappeared into a hedgerow in a tiny plume of smoke. We tried to imagine the odds of the same thing happening again and wondered if Bill would have time to react with his garden hose. Having seen his reflexes on the ice, we had no doubt the hypothetical rabbit stood a good chance of being saved.
Soon bags of marshmallows were brought out and their contents dispensed to children avid for the opportunity, for once, to play with fire. Two precautions were taken: the marshmallows were stuck on the end of sticks so long one needed a spyglass to see their doneness, and the children were told not to place them in the fire itself, but on a pile of glowing cinders several paces removed from the fire. A few adults also roasted marshmallows but we did not join them as the only food we like to eat blackened is tuna. By this time we were chatting it up with Rich Devlin and John Lupisella, who had come with their families, and represented the only other club members we saw that night.
At length we took our leave of Bill, interrupting him while he spoke with one of his former tenants with whom he was sharing memories of Hilltop House “back in the day”. Of our many compliments we put special emphasis on the food, which was delicious—two kinds of sausage, hotdogs, and chili so hot it made our fillings sizzle. We sampled it all and as for the Stella Artois, one beer was hardly enough. Suffice it to say, we left the bonfire light-headed, but heavier everywhere else.
Sunday’s game was billed as Red’s last stand, and stand they did, winning 7-5 on four goals by Jim Heffern and three by Greg Wright. Blue did not play like the champions they were, but neither did they throw the game with a weak effort, especially players like Brian Urban and Art Rosebaum who had two goals apiece, and Rich Devlin, who adroitly turned Hughie’s right flank before beating Vinnie “mono y mono”. Fittingly, the game ended on a crotchety note when Greg Wright, beautifully set up with a pass from Bill MacDowell, caught Marty fiddling with one of his unruly chest protector straps, and slapped one into the far corner of the net. There was still five minutes of ice time left, but Marty stomped off the ice anyway, too disgusted with his team’s effort to continue.
The mood in the locker room was anything but crotchety. There was a whole tubful of Miller Lites left over from Friday night, and people dug in, determined not to see it go to waste. Even after an hour about twelve people remained, subdivided into groups of three and four, and holding conversations that were as clamorous as any jam-packed bar at happy hour. There was still plenty of Miller Lite left—perhaps enough to last another hour—when, on the dot of 9:45 the door burst open and in strode Tony Valerio due for a 10 o’clock game. It was like a bounty hunter bursting in on a den of fugitives, and everyone bolted, not wanting to find out if he was packing his 9mm. As endings go, it was rather unceremonious, but at least Mike Dougherty saved the Miller Lite which, we trust, will be brought back in lieu of champagne to christen the summer season.