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Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Strawbs Wing Aviators

Strawberries 3 Aviators 2

Game Report
October 15, 2007

The tension in the dressing room before the first game of the new season was palpable yet subdued. From among the reserved susurrations, there could be detected an aura of high expectation for the coming season, tinged with an unspoken concern surrounding the level of play to be expected from a team, which quite frankly, had let itself go to seed in the off-season.

Seated against the far wall, while casually dusting the dead moths and desiccated mouse droppings from his disheveled equipment, Whoahorny Richardson calmly applied a light layer of nitro to his ailing chest in the hope that tonight would not be the night he croaked at his own blue line as a swarm of testosterone infused jackanapes descended upon his donkless goaltender. Butcher Brophey, recently elevated to that rare air of academia known to us lesser mortals as the “Doctorate”, a Doctorate conferred upon him by the Laxative Institute of Higher Business Studies of Bath-and-Spa, England, nervously tugged at a hockey undergarment best described as “beyond recognition”. The smell which emanated from said undergarment was causing much nausea all around until the proud Doctor acted upon the unanimous suggestion that he dispose of the offending article by using one the trash cans located in the arena parking lot. “I’ve had the best sex of my life in this thing” he protested. “Well you shoulda wiped yourself off on the curtains instead” growled unsympathetic Gumby, no stranger himself to the benefits of a handy set of drapes.

The new kid (aged 30 something), Shiny Shone Brightly did not know what to make of the pre-game proceedings but did show the Executive that he was worthy of his promotion to the big team by keeping his thoughts unuttered until he had actually made some kind of useful contribution to his new team.

With the determination of Dick Cheney on a duck hunt and with a Championship to defend, the Strawbs ascended the long stairway from the dressing room to the ice surface, encouraged by the screams of delight and admiration emanating from its solid fan base. Mag Girl, atwitter with lust at the sight of her man and men in uniform, and Samara Desert, lost in a gossamer reverie recounting her recent honeymoon with Warrin’ Peace, stomped their feet in appreciation, hopeful that their support might lead to victory on the ice and later at home. Both fans were resplendent in their blue-rinsed squirrel coats, gifts from the Executive last year at the end of season celebration.

The game started off at a very high pace. Mag Boy scrolled about the ice like a piece of overstretched barbed wire finally released from its imprisonment between the cedar posts of an ancient field fence. While there was much to admire in his enthusiasm, his direction and purpose left something to be desired. In his defence, he did score 2 of the team’s 3 goals, one of which certainly looked intended.

Jesse The Leak, recent graduate of the College and unfortunate student of the newly minted Doctor Butcher, turned in a first period performance worthy of Bambi’s mother after she took the bullet to the skull. The two first shots he faced, with a combined velocity of point 2 metres per day, found the back of the net with ease. Fresh from a dressing down between periods, he regained the form expected of him, blanking the pesky Aviators over the final 22 minutes.

Gumby gumbied gumbyesquely and was plus 4 on the night according to his own suspect calculations. He termed his performance “a granular one” and was quickly correctly by the ever sharp Freight Train 444 who noted that the performance was more glandular than granular, the gland in question being located at the end of his lower colon. “What’s grammar gotta do with it?” cried an exasperated Gumby, clearly hurt by the remark.

Although they chose not to score on this occasion, the versatile Vice Marshall and the laconic Ice Marshall ensured that the grit necessary for a repeat championship was present in spades. “By going to the box so frequently, we were trying to accomplish 2 things” announced the Ice Marshall at game’s end. "Firstly, by sitting in the box, we made it highly unlikely that we would take another penalty for at least the next 3 minutes. And secondly, this group of chronic underachievers and humility deficient aficionados of women’s fine lingerie needs to feel a little adversity to get their games to the level needed for success." As the sagacity of the proffered tactics slowly seeped into the barely conscious recesses of the team’s collective psyche, a suggestion was made that there existed a location where the beer was cold and the chicks even colder. “We’re not going to your place again, Brophey,” screamed all in unison, warmed by the prospect of free booze but even more frightened of running into a Miss White Go Go Boots not known for welcoming any male attention which she herself had not initiated.

The victors and their fans congregated post-tussle at the Bull. The game was duly reviewed and aspersions cast upon those pusillanimous Strawbs who failed to show for the match (Archilles, Pyjama Man and the self-concussed Dr. Thug).

8 Guinness, 3 Stella Artois, 2 Bud Light, 2 Red Keiths, one Sissy Singapore Sling and some parsimonious praise were consumed.

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