Search This Blog

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Catatonia Cakewalk

Strawberries 6 Thrashers 2

Game Report
January 10, 2008

Psychiatrists would label the performance “post-holiday catatonia”. Hockey aficionados would summarize it by its more common description: “shitty hockey with dashes of brilliance”.

In last night’s tussle with the chick-intensive Thrashers, the Strawbs approached the first match of the new year with visions of cakewalk dancing in their heads. And a cakewalk it was, complete with high scoring and a mind-numbing lack of mental and physical intensity. It was apparent from the get-go that there would be a price to be paid for too many Strawberries having spent too much time too close to the bonbon bowl during the Christmas break. Management apologizes profusely to its fan for the all round dearth of effort.

Let’s start with the shitty part: periods one and two. Now, let’s move on to the brilliance. The Vice finally broke out of his 4 season slump to score another of his gravity defying goals. Summoning all the strength that remained in his tortured torso, he sauntered into the slot, picked up an errant pass from his knitting bee partner, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, and with the casual ease of one born to a life of comfort and debauchery, launched the biscuit on a five foot high, 10 foot long arc which somehow, after an eternity in the thin air of ice pad #2, found its way 7 microns across the goal line: a listless goal by a listless man in a listless game.

The Vice was not the only one to minimize the use of energy on the evening. Archilles Perron, himself mired in a season of sub-par performance, broke out of his shell to score three times on the night, 2 of them beauties. On all three occasions, he did not expend more energy than could be found in a room cooled to 1 degree Kelvin. While management congratulates the recovering great on his recent achievement, it is hoped that the spark which made him Rookie of the Year in 1977 returns soon.

In his own inimical way, Freight Train Laronde contributed to high level of languorousness which characterized the match. In a pickup match earlier in the week, he was involved in a train wreck with Dr. Thug, who was just recovering from the 43rd concussion of his checkered career. As Freight Train was chugging down the ice, dreaming of completing the doctoral dissertation which has dogged him for the last 5 years, he crushed the unsuspecting Dr. Thug with the unintended body check of a lifetime. Down went Dr. Thug, just like a Kennedy, with concussion #44. As everyone knows, Dr. Thug brings a lot of “je ne sais quoi” and “Boeuf Bouillabaisse” to rink every night. Last night, the Bouillabaisse went missing.

Speaking of big French words, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, Monsieur Le Docteur Boucher Brophey was absent by his presence. Not one holding call against him, not a trip nor a slash nor a ceremonial beheading to mark his return from a vacation filled with Hostess Twinkies, cheap vodka and insalubrious encounters in the snow bank at the end of his driveway. He played unemotionally, seemingly lost in a cloud of self-doubt, painted with radium and smacked with a flyswatter. Hope he comes back soon.

Whoahorny Richardson, normally a stalwart on defence and often a sneaky offensive threat, was woeful. Three times he was set up alone in the enemy’s slot by the smooth passing Ice Marshall, only to unleash anemic attempts which barely reached the goaltender’s breadbasket. His shots made the Vice’s look like rockets in comparison. It is suspected that, over the holidays, Whoahorny was concocting a new batch of hooch in his basement lair and that, due to over-imbibing, has worked himself into a month long coma. Time to shape up mister.

A new year’s resolution to quit smoking appears to have taken the wind out of Warrin’ Peace’s game. He was much better when he was emulating his glorious hero, Smokie Hill, former Strawberry Extraordinaire, who regularly smoked 2 cigarettes, a cheap Cuban cigar and the contents of a small hookah between shifts, yet managed to contribute stellarly every time he hit the ice sober. It was noticed that the same lethargy was affecting Warrin’s first wife, the gorgeous Samara Desert, who was in attendance on this forgettable occasion. The Desert barely managed a “Go Warrin’ Go” or a “you suck, ref” all evening. There will certainly be carton of unfiltered CancerStick Mild awaiting him and her in the arena lobby prior to the start of the next match.

Shiny Sean Brightly can possibly be forgiven his lack of contribution. Over the holidays, he self-reportedly became a father for the second time: a boy apparently with an appendage the size of Florida on a warm day. He is to be called Carmen or Carswell or Crimson Tide or something of that ilk. Since no cigars or photos were offered for general consumption, the jury is still out on whether he was just lying to cover his poor showing.

After waving hello to a soft goal early in the second period, Jesse The Leak settled down enough to stop the surging Thrashers for the remainder of the game. Fortunately his spectacular saves outnumbered his spectacular flubs and he will be allowed to start the next match against the Blades of Steel, the only team between the Strawbs and another championship ring.

MagBoy, despite being elevated to a place of honour on a line with Messrs. Peace and Marshall, was ineffective, obstructionist and mono-syllabic. Perhaps he was tired from ironing and starching MagGirl’s unmentionables. It doesn’t really matter. He needs to bring his C+ game or better to the rink next time.

What can be said about Gumby that hasn’t already been said? Plenty. But we’ll stick to just one thing for now. One would have guessed that, being knighted Sir Gawdawful Gumby at the Annual I Know What Women Don’t Want Convention at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, our brave new knight would have come out with some gusto. He did not. Apparently, the title was wasted, as was he at the ceremony.

Fortunately enough gumption was mustered by a sufficient number of Strawberries to make it a worthwhile post game encounter at the Terminal Tavern. Lethargy was toasted enthusiastically and the victory sealed with beers from around the world. All sluggards were temporarily forgiven and bonhomie reigned again.

2 Guinness, 4 Guinness/Stella aberrations, 2 Bud Light, 2 Keiths and a carton of CancerStick Unfiltered were consumed.

1 comment:

Rob Greenfield said...

as with all "tequila" games, it was a dud!!