Post by Old Bucks Admin on Jan 6, 2011 8:50:39 GMT -5
A drab, gray pall hung over Old Bucks for Week 14, a sign that holidays were over and spirits depressed. No more three-day work weeks, Caribbean cruises, or Neapolitan (Florida) getaways. It was back to the daily grind, a prospect which told on the club’s mood so profoundly Red and Blue couldn’t stand the sight of each other and dressed in separate locker rooms, Red in 4 and Blue in 3. Perhaps it was a sign of just how much the acetone of Kenny’s leadership had dissolved the glue with which Angie had bound the club together. With a hard-nosed, fuss-budget, take-no-IOU’s attitude he’s made himself into the Chris Christie of Old Bucks. Only Chris Christie can play better defense.
Oliver Hamill was back “for one night only”. Apparently it was his punishment for losing to Bill at beerchesi on New Year’s Eve. Paul Egan was also back, still trying to pitch himself to either team as an “enforcer”-type player—someone who compensates for marginal hockey skills with feistiness and brawn. So far he’s only been able to convince everyone of his marginal hockey skills. Over all, turnout was good with both house goalies and 26 skaters.
It what’s starting to sound as tedious as a twice-told tale, Alex Cerbone opened the scoring, driving the lane and beating Marty to put Blue up 1-0. Red countered with—who else?—Tim White, who always seems to be at the vanguard of any offense. But Blue had the hot team at first, allowing them to build a 5-2 lead on another goal by Alex, and ones by Brian, Jim Heffern, and Rich Devlin. But then they took their foot off the gas, and Red got right back into it; with the whole team queuing up to beat Kenny G. every which way but loose. Craig Allen scored, Huck Fairman, Nick Swift, Eddie, and even George Schott scored, whose chronic fuzziness with the rules of the game never seems to impact his ability to put the puck in the net whenever he’s “of a mind”. Ben Blankstein, skating for Red, got a key goal to tie the game at sevens. But then he was attacked by a mutant ninja Saunders. In a display of gentlemanly forbearance, Ben allowed himself to be thrown to the ice and pummeled into insensibility while Dad, a past master at gentlemanly forbearance, beamed with pride. In Saunders’ defense, he claimed that after Ben scored his goal he uttered an anti-bald-guy-from-Brooklyn slur.
With the clock winding down, Red punched in a quick two goals to take the lead 9-7. Greg Wright scored first, and then Saunders’ friend scored—a green-helmeted head case whose lack of a cage attested to the heedlessness of his romp through the Blue defense. Blue looked beat, but then Rich Devlin went shopping for five holes and got Blue back to within one, 9-8. Jim Heffern got the game-tyer, roofing it over a diving Marty, and betraying his stoic reserve just enough to pump the air with his fist.
Final score: 9-9.
Only grudgingly did the two teams mingle after the game for beer talk. They were partly drawn together by the spectacle of Greg Wright showing off his pink toenails—the product of having passed out New Year’s Eve in the presence of Malaysian pedicurist. We thought this was hard to swallow, but our gag reflexes would be tested to the utmost when Hughie began to dispense salty strips of dried sinew which he dubiously called “deer jerky”. These were not your grandfathers’ slim jims, one bite of which could put the strongest constitution into a sodium nitrate-induced stupor. It was while we were nursing one of these strips between cheek and gum, trying to retain full control of our faculties, that we heard of what transpired during the blizzard of Week 13. Apparently only about 10 people showed up and no goalies, so play lasted about an hour and was fractured, disjointed, and rather pointless—in other words, normal. Fortunately John Lupisella made it all worthwhile, having brought in some limoncello, a Christmas tradition at Old Bucks.
In past years John has been chary of how much he brings in from his private stock, not wanting to waste the precious elixir on our beer-guzzling palates. Usually he brings in about a pint and everyone gets a thimbleful—just enough to wet the tongue and, like Tantalus, crave more. He has since perfected a means of mass producing limoncello, having discovered that if you leave Gatorade in a warm garage for about a year it will ferment, and then if you add two Tbls. of lemon zest per quart, you’ll get the real deal. So Week 13 saw a “beer talk” unlike any other, with everyone chugging limoncello and letting the witticisms fly faster than the snow outside. Mostly they mocked and disparaged members of the club who were not there, also an Old Bucks tradition, not confined to Christmas. As an index of just how irreverent things got, the most salacious gossip and innuendo was directed at Bill MacDowell. When the party broke up everyone was drunk and Paul Egan went “ass over teakettle” while attempting the steps outside the ice center. Still they all made it home safely, except for Hughie, who crashed in a ditch in West Amwell Twp., blundered his way across two miles of open farmland in the teeth of howling wind and snow, negotiating six-foot high snow drifts, becoming, at one point, ensnared in the barbed wire of a cow pen, and ultimately, losing half his nose to the depredations of frost bite. But he repeated his deer-hunting story from Week 11 and it grew back again.
Oliver Hamill was back “for one night only”. Apparently it was his punishment for losing to Bill at beerchesi on New Year’s Eve. Paul Egan was also back, still trying to pitch himself to either team as an “enforcer”-type player—someone who compensates for marginal hockey skills with feistiness and brawn. So far he’s only been able to convince everyone of his marginal hockey skills. Over all, turnout was good with both house goalies and 26 skaters.
It what’s starting to sound as tedious as a twice-told tale, Alex Cerbone opened the scoring, driving the lane and beating Marty to put Blue up 1-0. Red countered with—who else?—Tim White, who always seems to be at the vanguard of any offense. But Blue had the hot team at first, allowing them to build a 5-2 lead on another goal by Alex, and ones by Brian, Jim Heffern, and Rich Devlin. But then they took their foot off the gas, and Red got right back into it; with the whole team queuing up to beat Kenny G. every which way but loose. Craig Allen scored, Huck Fairman, Nick Swift, Eddie, and even George Schott scored, whose chronic fuzziness with the rules of the game never seems to impact his ability to put the puck in the net whenever he’s “of a mind”. Ben Blankstein, skating for Red, got a key goal to tie the game at sevens. But then he was attacked by a mutant ninja Saunders. In a display of gentlemanly forbearance, Ben allowed himself to be thrown to the ice and pummeled into insensibility while Dad, a past master at gentlemanly forbearance, beamed with pride. In Saunders’ defense, he claimed that after Ben scored his goal he uttered an anti-bald-guy-from-Brooklyn slur.
With the clock winding down, Red punched in a quick two goals to take the lead 9-7. Greg Wright scored first, and then Saunders’ friend scored—a green-helmeted head case whose lack of a cage attested to the heedlessness of his romp through the Blue defense. Blue looked beat, but then Rich Devlin went shopping for five holes and got Blue back to within one, 9-8. Jim Heffern got the game-tyer, roofing it over a diving Marty, and betraying his stoic reserve just enough to pump the air with his fist.
Final score: 9-9.
Only grudgingly did the two teams mingle after the game for beer talk. They were partly drawn together by the spectacle of Greg Wright showing off his pink toenails—the product of having passed out New Year’s Eve in the presence of Malaysian pedicurist. We thought this was hard to swallow, but our gag reflexes would be tested to the utmost when Hughie began to dispense salty strips of dried sinew which he dubiously called “deer jerky”. These were not your grandfathers’ slim jims, one bite of which could put the strongest constitution into a sodium nitrate-induced stupor. It was while we were nursing one of these strips between cheek and gum, trying to retain full control of our faculties, that we heard of what transpired during the blizzard of Week 13. Apparently only about 10 people showed up and no goalies, so play lasted about an hour and was fractured, disjointed, and rather pointless—in other words, normal. Fortunately John Lupisella made it all worthwhile, having brought in some limoncello, a Christmas tradition at Old Bucks.
In past years John has been chary of how much he brings in from his private stock, not wanting to waste the precious elixir on our beer-guzzling palates. Usually he brings in about a pint and everyone gets a thimbleful—just enough to wet the tongue and, like Tantalus, crave more. He has since perfected a means of mass producing limoncello, having discovered that if you leave Gatorade in a warm garage for about a year it will ferment, and then if you add two Tbls. of lemon zest per quart, you’ll get the real deal. So Week 13 saw a “beer talk” unlike any other, with everyone chugging limoncello and letting the witticisms fly faster than the snow outside. Mostly they mocked and disparaged members of the club who were not there, also an Old Bucks tradition, not confined to Christmas. As an index of just how irreverent things got, the most salacious gossip and innuendo was directed at Bill MacDowell. When the party broke up everyone was drunk and Paul Egan went “ass over teakettle” while attempting the steps outside the ice center. Still they all made it home safely, except for Hughie, who crashed in a ditch in West Amwell Twp., blundered his way across two miles of open farmland in the teeth of howling wind and snow, negotiating six-foot high snow drifts, becoming, at one point, ensnared in the barbed wire of a cow pen, and ultimately, losing half his nose to the depredations of frost bite. But he repeated his deer-hunting story from Week 11 and it grew back again.