Blades Bend Then Break Under Strawberry Barrage

Strawberries 6 Blades of Steel 0
Game Report

November 8, 2007

It was the fastest of times, it was the slowest of times, it was a day of incredulity, it was a night of wondrous belief, it was the season of scintillation, it was an epoch of hope, it was the winter of despair, it was the era of blissful incompetence. We had the whole schedule before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to the OHL Cup, we all going direct to the standings cellar. There was a godless gypsy on defence and a true disciple on left wing-in short, the game was so far like a dream, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on it being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of exposition only. We, of course, will be nothing but totally objective.

While some of the Strawbs players were ramping up their games, others continued to be mired in the muck of their own lassitude. Let us begin with the Ramper-Uppers. Freight Train 444, demoted to defence for previous offensive infractions best left undescribed, brought his game up 3 notches, scoring twice from the point using a modified version of the wristshot he perfected as a shy yet petulant 6 year old in the slums of Sudbury. He could have scored more goals ...many more goals… but discretely chose instead not to embarrass his bosom buddy, the taciturn Archilles Perron who, for the last 336 games, has been struggling to find the form which first endeared him to the Executive. Goal-less since 1998, and precariously positioned on a secret trade bubble, Archilles broke out his slump. What must have been going through his head as he streaked magisterially down the left wing, his manly mane struggling to keep up with the rest of his speeding frame? We’ll probably never know but we can only imagine what daemons he must have shrugged off as he broke loose across the Blades’ blueline, deked left, then right, then left again, stopped to tie his lace and smooth back his late arriving hair. Refreshed, he carried on unmolested to the net which must have seemed to him smaller than the shadow cast by Gumby’s current bundle of morals. With great precision and care, Archilles whistled the rubber toward the minuscule opening to the goaltender’s left. The puck hesitated for a moment, gathered courage and thus fortified, rammed itself ecstatically into the mesh.

Freight Train and Archilles were not the only ones to distinguish themselves on this night of nights. The Vice Marshall, hobbled at home by the unrelenting demands for perfection perpetrated upon his august self by the beautiful Madame LaChaise Lounge, dug deeply into his checkered past to regale his unsuspecting team mates with a move he had only used once before, inadvertently, in a championship PeeWee hockey game against the Losers of Zwiebrucken, Germany, captained at the time by the redoubtable and diarrheatically prolix Kernal Grant, retired. (More about the dubious Kernal later). Now, some players travel at the speed of light. Not the Vice. Not his style. He prefers to go with his strengths, one of his strengths being deception. On this evening, he was at his deceptive best. As he floated aimlessly between the blue and red lines, humming obscure Bob Dylan tunes to himself, the puck suddenly presented itself at his feet. Immediately, he sprung to half-life, and entered his snake charmer mode. While slowly weaving back and forth, cuddling the puck in successive long sweeps of his hockey stick, he bored into submission the only Blades’ defenceman between him and the net. Moving at warp slowness, he moved the biscuit forward between the somnabulant defender’s legs, picked it up again about a day later on the other side of the blueline, and made a beeline for the net. With the dexterity of a young Houdini, the Vice slid the puck under the goaltender, much to the delight of a screaming Dr. Thug. The whole affair was like watching a slow motion Swahili version of “Waiting For Godot” . Painful to watch but good for the soul.

Speaking of Houdini, there was more legerdemain to be had. Well, not exactly legerdemain…more like “What-the-hell-is-doing-now-demain”. Our air-conditioned hippy gypsy, Gawdawful Gumby once again distinguished himself by scoring on a breakaway. How did it happen?

There was a faceoff in the Strawbs’ end. The Vice gained control of the puck as it was dropped and flipped it to center ice to a waiting Gumby, whose real job it was to remain in his own end until it was safe for him and his defence partner to leave. He left the zone early to pursue one of his inexplicable whims. He whimmed himself to center ice, grabbed the Vice’s offering and deposited it smugly into the Blades’ net. With his best “I could do this all the time” look, he glided blithely past his team mates as they lined up to congratulate him, grunted a few syllables of reluctant thanks and took his place at the end of the bench, as content as a wild mouse in an abandoned catnip factory.


It would seem inappropriate, in the light of the excellence noted above, to point out the low points in the game. There were a few. But then again, too few to mention. Most could be attributed to the lack of support the Strawbs have been receiving in the stands lately. True, the reliable Samara Desert was in her usual post, willing her new husband and slave, the slick Warrin’ Peace, to greatness. Unfortunately, there was no hide nor hair to be found belonging to Magnesium Girl, Miss White Go Go Boots, Madame La Chaise Lounge, Pamdaemonium, Glasgow Glamour or Mrs. Lucky, current squeeze of the Ice Marshall himself. What will it take to secure their fickle affection?

Elated by the victory and disappointed by the dearth of adulation, the team met up after the game at the usual watering hole. Backs were patted, egos stroked and mild oaths uttered. Brilliant plays were described with the greatest care. It was the best of times.

6 black and tans, two “here’s what your getting”, 4 Budlight, 7 Stella, 2 jugs, 2 pounds of wings and the best, most excellent, superlative and acme scratching comraderie was had.