Post by Old Bucks Admin on Dec 21, 2010 22:40:34 GMT -5
Written by Paul Egan.
18-13.
Let that sink in for a moment, gentlemen; 18-13. With defensive strategies clearly cautioned to the wind and three lane passes de rigueur, this one reads like a synopsis of a Special-Olympics boxing match – not terribly pretty to watch, but a showcase of heart and a triumph of spirit over collective athletic acumen.
In what seemed to portend Blue futility, the teams were chosen by Saunders, and for a while that strategy seemed to backfire on him. Paul Egan, playing for Red, got things started by one-timing a sloppy rebound with aplomb that belies his natural affinity to quickly “hot potato” the puck to whichever player is closest, heedless of jersey color. Go ahead Egan, take that hit from the crack pipe, the first rock is free. You’ll be back… yeah, right. Welcome to America, hoser.
Craig Allen, bathing in the afterglow of Red’s first goal, must’ve been playing it back in his internal highlight reel ‘cause he surely wasn’t watching what he was doing with the puck, making a lame touch pass in the neutral zone that Rich Cerbone capitalized on, scoring on an unprepared Jamie. Apparently Mr. Allen’s core defensive skills are limited to his potty mouth and piercing stare. One all. In a fit of unfamiliar circumstance, the usually fluid Jim Heffern dipsy-doodled a little too much in the defensive (Red) zone, thus handing the puck over to the dangerous sniper that is Brian Urban. 2-1, Blue. In a flurry of transitional zone effectiveness, Jonathan Miller feathered a gorgeous pass to Larry Johnson, with Johnson wristing a laser past a shuddering Kenny G., tying the game at two’s. Apparently the Goldschlager occupies more than just the front of his jersey. Like a tennis match, this game of hockey…
And then it all became like the much-talked about football game from the previous night, with Red playing the part of the over-confident New York Giants (‘cept the good defense part). Running away with the match for the first “three quarters”, Red outpaced the Blue squad in humiliating fashion, extending their lead to 10-5. Jim Heffern rebounded from his earlier momentary lapse, placing two biscuits in the basket, Greg Wright had two (only) to this point (an off night for the yellow-socked bastard); all Red had to do was protect the lead…
And then Mike Robbins woke up. Although for a while unused to his new Blue smock, he flew by a galvanized Jim Heffern, as if standing still, potting his second goal in as many attempts. Heffern limped off the ice, mumbling something about a pulled groin, the outline of his appropriately sloping shoulders unencumbered by any form of sensible protection. Then George Bassert went wristie on an increasingly shell-shocked Jamie. Feelin’ blue indeed. Mike Robbins, for once deciding to pass the puck, did so with a beautiful set up to Rich Devlin, who one-timed it from the slot to bring the score to 10-9. Then the junior Bassert tied it up 10-10, and Red started to collectively feel panic like a mouth breathing Eli Manning should have done with five minutes remaining, had the boob a cogent thought, let alone brain in his head.
From the “shuffling the deck chairs on the Titanic” category, Red attempted to juggle its player rotation, Moving Nick (aptly named) Swift up to offense and Larry Johnson back to defense to similar iceberg-bearing down effect. Tension mounting. Red futility afoot. Twenty goals split evenly between the two teams.
Circling back to the Special Olympics Boxing reference, Saunders and Paul Egan squared off in the Red zone, dropping their gloves (purses, really) and engaged in a donnybrook that can only be described as a sissy-boy slap match. Had either “player” had the skills to effectively stand on one skate without going ass over teakettle, kicking would’ve surely ensued. No one was amused – least of all Saunder’s daughter, the lone “fan” in the stands. A later intercepted text from her cell phone to brother Sean is reported to have read “Dad’s a pansy”. Here here.
This melee was followed by two controversial goals; both sticking, but ultimately cancelling each other out – Jamie saved a shot from Nick Swift, but he didn’t know where the puck was (Hughie posits that it fell loose from his uterus) – John Lupisella capitalized on a freebie and stole one, falling into a well worn cliché. Red now up, 11-10. Following this, Brian Urban played a puck that fell from the safety net (must protect our throngs of fans at all times, God bless ‘em), tying the game at 11 each. One bad turn deserves another. Blue went up two goals with taters by Rich Devlin and the junior Bassert (does this guy ever leave the ice?), and Red returned a partial favor with a beauty by Jonathan Millen. In a feat that temporarily contradicts the voluminous outcome of the match, Jamie stonewalled Mike Robbins on a fearsome breakaway… but a little too pleased with himself (always open your eyes after the first save, Jamie), he chose, in lieu of covering the puck sitting three feet in front of the crease, to allow a gift wrapped Easter egg for Rich Devlin on the easy sedentary rebound. 14-12 Blue.
Adding significant insult to feigned injury, Red last-gasped a bench-clearing go-for-broke (and thumbing their collective nose to the already loosely interpreted “rules”) went with nine skaters on the pond, resulting in, naturally, another Blue goal. 18-13 it is. ‘Nuff said. Oh the humanity! Of the 18 goals deposited by Blue on this fateful night, the lone solace that team Red can take away from this drubbing is that Saunders accounted for not a single one. Apparently he was distracted by his impending tasks at hand as a principal stand in for the lunar eclipse later that same night.
Although no pictures accompany this blog, it’s this reporter’s recollection that both goaltenders remained face forward in their creases for much of the action – heedless of the effectiveness of that strategy.
“Hey Desean Jackson, you feel like returning a punt?”
18-13.
Let that sink in for a moment, gentlemen; 18-13. With defensive strategies clearly cautioned to the wind and three lane passes de rigueur, this one reads like a synopsis of a Special-Olympics boxing match – not terribly pretty to watch, but a showcase of heart and a triumph of spirit over collective athletic acumen.
In what seemed to portend Blue futility, the teams were chosen by Saunders, and for a while that strategy seemed to backfire on him. Paul Egan, playing for Red, got things started by one-timing a sloppy rebound with aplomb that belies his natural affinity to quickly “hot potato” the puck to whichever player is closest, heedless of jersey color. Go ahead Egan, take that hit from the crack pipe, the first rock is free. You’ll be back… yeah, right. Welcome to America, hoser.
Craig Allen, bathing in the afterglow of Red’s first goal, must’ve been playing it back in his internal highlight reel ‘cause he surely wasn’t watching what he was doing with the puck, making a lame touch pass in the neutral zone that Rich Cerbone capitalized on, scoring on an unprepared Jamie. Apparently Mr. Allen’s core defensive skills are limited to his potty mouth and piercing stare. One all. In a fit of unfamiliar circumstance, the usually fluid Jim Heffern dipsy-doodled a little too much in the defensive (Red) zone, thus handing the puck over to the dangerous sniper that is Brian Urban. 2-1, Blue. In a flurry of transitional zone effectiveness, Jonathan Miller feathered a gorgeous pass to Larry Johnson, with Johnson wristing a laser past a shuddering Kenny G., tying the game at two’s. Apparently the Goldschlager occupies more than just the front of his jersey. Like a tennis match, this game of hockey…
And then it all became like the much-talked about football game from the previous night, with Red playing the part of the over-confident New York Giants (‘cept the good defense part). Running away with the match for the first “three quarters”, Red outpaced the Blue squad in humiliating fashion, extending their lead to 10-5. Jim Heffern rebounded from his earlier momentary lapse, placing two biscuits in the basket, Greg Wright had two (only) to this point (an off night for the yellow-socked bastard); all Red had to do was protect the lead…
And then Mike Robbins woke up. Although for a while unused to his new Blue smock, he flew by a galvanized Jim Heffern, as if standing still, potting his second goal in as many attempts. Heffern limped off the ice, mumbling something about a pulled groin, the outline of his appropriately sloping shoulders unencumbered by any form of sensible protection. Then George Bassert went wristie on an increasingly shell-shocked Jamie. Feelin’ blue indeed. Mike Robbins, for once deciding to pass the puck, did so with a beautiful set up to Rich Devlin, who one-timed it from the slot to bring the score to 10-9. Then the junior Bassert tied it up 10-10, and Red started to collectively feel panic like a mouth breathing Eli Manning should have done with five minutes remaining, had the boob a cogent thought, let alone brain in his head.
From the “shuffling the deck chairs on the Titanic” category, Red attempted to juggle its player rotation, Moving Nick (aptly named) Swift up to offense and Larry Johnson back to defense to similar iceberg-bearing down effect. Tension mounting. Red futility afoot. Twenty goals split evenly between the two teams.
Circling back to the Special Olympics Boxing reference, Saunders and Paul Egan squared off in the Red zone, dropping their gloves (purses, really) and engaged in a donnybrook that can only be described as a sissy-boy slap match. Had either “player” had the skills to effectively stand on one skate without going ass over teakettle, kicking would’ve surely ensued. No one was amused – least of all Saunder’s daughter, the lone “fan” in the stands. A later intercepted text from her cell phone to brother Sean is reported to have read “Dad’s a pansy”. Here here.
This melee was followed by two controversial goals; both sticking, but ultimately cancelling each other out – Jamie saved a shot from Nick Swift, but he didn’t know where the puck was (Hughie posits that it fell loose from his uterus) – John Lupisella capitalized on a freebie and stole one, falling into a well worn cliché. Red now up, 11-10. Following this, Brian Urban played a puck that fell from the safety net (must protect our throngs of fans at all times, God bless ‘em), tying the game at 11 each. One bad turn deserves another. Blue went up two goals with taters by Rich Devlin and the junior Bassert (does this guy ever leave the ice?), and Red returned a partial favor with a beauty by Jonathan Millen. In a feat that temporarily contradicts the voluminous outcome of the match, Jamie stonewalled Mike Robbins on a fearsome breakaway… but a little too pleased with himself (always open your eyes after the first save, Jamie), he chose, in lieu of covering the puck sitting three feet in front of the crease, to allow a gift wrapped Easter egg for Rich Devlin on the easy sedentary rebound. 14-12 Blue.
Adding significant insult to feigned injury, Red last-gasped a bench-clearing go-for-broke (and thumbing their collective nose to the already loosely interpreted “rules”) went with nine skaters on the pond, resulting in, naturally, another Blue goal. 18-13 it is. ‘Nuff said. Oh the humanity! Of the 18 goals deposited by Blue on this fateful night, the lone solace that team Red can take away from this drubbing is that Saunders accounted for not a single one. Apparently he was distracted by his impending tasks at hand as a principal stand in for the lunar eclipse later that same night.
Although no pictures accompany this blog, it’s this reporter’s recollection that both goaltenders remained face forward in their creases for much of the action – heedless of the effectiveness of that strategy.
“Hey Desean Jackson, you feel like returning a punt?”