Post by Old Bucks Admin on Dec 8, 2010 23:00:49 GMT -5
Hughie was an hour late for Week 10, so the club had to make do without the pinnies, dividing the squads accordingly: black and blue vs. red and white. The lack of pinnies had no impact on Kenny’s choice of teams. His dictum “semper aedum” or “always the same” has, of late, given each team an appearance as predictable as Mount Rushmore. Red was still Red, aside from the addition of Paul Egan who sat out last week in protest of Kenny’s decision not to make the club sing “O Canada” before every game. And Blue was still Blue with the Cerbones back, but Bob Freiling a healthy scratch. Kenny G. was back, too, playing goal for Blue and Marty was between the pipes for Red. Turnout was light with five players on each bench.
Jim Heffern, on Blue, opened the scoring, catching Red deep in the Blue zone when he took the ice on a line change. Alex Cerbone gunned a pass up the middle that Jim received in stride and “took to the house” beating Marty for the score. But Red struck back when Scoop stripped Diaz in the neutral zone and wristed a shot past Kenny. As the game gathered pace, so did Red’s offense. Goal quickly succeeded goal: Jonathan Millen scored, then Mike Robbins, Eddie, Nick Swift, and even Kenny laid the lumber on it, uncorking one from the point that penetrated, laser-like, the back of the net. Everyone on Red contributed; everyone, that is, except for Paul Egan who has yet to score in seven games with the club. Perhaps he has found our American brand of hockey too elevated for his capacity. But whether he’s unused to his new cage, or still has trouble negotiating fluctuations in ice temperature, it might behoove him to light the lamp once in a while, if only to show a little national pride.
At 7-2 Red, Blue was floundering. Saunders looked like a pilotless drone that had completely lost contact with its NORAD handlers. Rich Devlin looked like he was on an unfamiliar golf course and his caddy had deserted him after being cudgeled with a six iron for losing his ball. Nor could Brian Urban, on shot after shot, get the puck past Marty. “I guess he’s got my number,” Brian muttered after being stoned three times in one shift. We were thinking more along the lines of a Pedro Martinez quote, “I guess I have to call him my daddy.” Blue’s only offense was Alex Cerbone—and he was playing defense. Problem was no one covered for him on his forays into the Red zone and, thus, odd man rushes for Red were commonplace and led to several goals. Only Saunders recognized this and was apoplectic throughout the game, dropping F-bombs as if it was “Curse Blue—Win an Ipod” night at the ice center.
Coming back was a tall order for Blue but they made a go of it, once drawing to within two, down 9-7. But Kenny scored again (another rip from the point) and Blue never recovered. Red won 11-9.
Hughie deferred his excuse for being late until after the game. Everyone assumed that like Doug Rendell he was late because he neglected to read his e-mail. Not even close. Over beers he told the story of how he had been all morning hunting up in the bear swamps of Pike County, Pennsylvania. About 10 a.m. he was coming upwind over ridge when a twelve-pointer jumped up right in front of him, not more than 10 yards away. He snap-shot him right in the chest with a .30/40 and the force of the bullet spun the buck around so fast that when the bullet exited, it was heading straight for Hughie. Fortunately he was wearing a Kevlar vest (a relic of his duck hunting days with Vice-President Cheney) and the bullet deflected right off the area of his heart, knocking him backwards into a persimmon bush. Unfortunately the bullet then punctured the tire of his four wheeler. Stranded five miles from his truck, he was forced to sling the 300 lb. buck over his shoulders and slog back through the swamps, all the while stalked by a cougar drawn by the scent of blood and the cream cheese caked in the voluminous bristles of Hughie’s mustache. He made it back to his truck safely and repaired to the rink with all possible speed, stopping only at the local Meats and More to have the deer processed. “I guess I’ll know better next time than to use such a heavy bullet at close range,” Hughie concluded, as if this moral was somehow relevant to the roomful of people who had just had their faith in his ability to bring the pinnies every Sunday shattered.
On a lighter note, now that Kip Thomas is in semi-retirement, Paul Egan is making a strong bid to replace him as the club’s resident master of the wisecrack. We cite the following exchange between Paul and Saunders as an example:
Saunders (coming out from the shower with beer, towel, and soap): “There’s no hat wudda in there. Frickin’ sucks—no hat wudda. I wuz freezin’ my butt off.”
Paul: “Do you always bring your beer in the shower?”
Saunders: “Yeah. I drink a little. Fill it up. Drink a little more. Fill it up again.”
Paul: “And with Coors Lite you can’t even tell.”
Jim Heffern, on Blue, opened the scoring, catching Red deep in the Blue zone when he took the ice on a line change. Alex Cerbone gunned a pass up the middle that Jim received in stride and “took to the house” beating Marty for the score. But Red struck back when Scoop stripped Diaz in the neutral zone and wristed a shot past Kenny. As the game gathered pace, so did Red’s offense. Goal quickly succeeded goal: Jonathan Millen scored, then Mike Robbins, Eddie, Nick Swift, and even Kenny laid the lumber on it, uncorking one from the point that penetrated, laser-like, the back of the net. Everyone on Red contributed; everyone, that is, except for Paul Egan who has yet to score in seven games with the club. Perhaps he has found our American brand of hockey too elevated for his capacity. But whether he’s unused to his new cage, or still has trouble negotiating fluctuations in ice temperature, it might behoove him to light the lamp once in a while, if only to show a little national pride.
At 7-2 Red, Blue was floundering. Saunders looked like a pilotless drone that had completely lost contact with its NORAD handlers. Rich Devlin looked like he was on an unfamiliar golf course and his caddy had deserted him after being cudgeled with a six iron for losing his ball. Nor could Brian Urban, on shot after shot, get the puck past Marty. “I guess he’s got my number,” Brian muttered after being stoned three times in one shift. We were thinking more along the lines of a Pedro Martinez quote, “I guess I have to call him my daddy.” Blue’s only offense was Alex Cerbone—and he was playing defense. Problem was no one covered for him on his forays into the Red zone and, thus, odd man rushes for Red were commonplace and led to several goals. Only Saunders recognized this and was apoplectic throughout the game, dropping F-bombs as if it was “Curse Blue—Win an Ipod” night at the ice center.
Coming back was a tall order for Blue but they made a go of it, once drawing to within two, down 9-7. But Kenny scored again (another rip from the point) and Blue never recovered. Red won 11-9.
Hughie deferred his excuse for being late until after the game. Everyone assumed that like Doug Rendell he was late because he neglected to read his e-mail. Not even close. Over beers he told the story of how he had been all morning hunting up in the bear swamps of Pike County, Pennsylvania. About 10 a.m. he was coming upwind over ridge when a twelve-pointer jumped up right in front of him, not more than 10 yards away. He snap-shot him right in the chest with a .30/40 and the force of the bullet spun the buck around so fast that when the bullet exited, it was heading straight for Hughie. Fortunately he was wearing a Kevlar vest (a relic of his duck hunting days with Vice-President Cheney) and the bullet deflected right off the area of his heart, knocking him backwards into a persimmon bush. Unfortunately the bullet then punctured the tire of his four wheeler. Stranded five miles from his truck, he was forced to sling the 300 lb. buck over his shoulders and slog back through the swamps, all the while stalked by a cougar drawn by the scent of blood and the cream cheese caked in the voluminous bristles of Hughie’s mustache. He made it back to his truck safely and repaired to the rink with all possible speed, stopping only at the local Meats and More to have the deer processed. “I guess I’ll know better next time than to use such a heavy bullet at close range,” Hughie concluded, as if this moral was somehow relevant to the roomful of people who had just had their faith in his ability to bring the pinnies every Sunday shattered.
On a lighter note, now that Kip Thomas is in semi-retirement, Paul Egan is making a strong bid to replace him as the club’s resident master of the wisecrack. We cite the following exchange between Paul and Saunders as an example:
Saunders (coming out from the shower with beer, towel, and soap): “There’s no hat wudda in there. Frickin’ sucks—no hat wudda. I wuz freezin’ my butt off.”
Paul: “Do you always bring your beer in the shower?”
Saunders: “Yeah. I drink a little. Fill it up. Drink a little more. Fill it up again.”
Paul: “And with Coors Lite you can’t even tell.”