Dally, Rally, Lose in Finale

Game Report

January 12, 2009

Spitfires 4 Killer Strawberries 3

It was a ragged performance for the first 35 minutes of play, as the Killer Strawberries, still carrying an average of 25 pounds of extra body putty per person put on over the Christmas break, struggled to find their inner Crosbies. Apparently, the Crosbies were on vacation because the despised Spitfires were up 4-1 with 5 minutes to play.

Sensing the embarrassment of the score, the Strawbs ramped her up into second gear, scored a couple of quick goals and almost pulled off the tie, shorthanded and frustrated, as time cruelly expired.

It was much like the situation every teenage boy has faced since time immemorial: girlfriend’s parents out for the evening, no one else home, teenage boy sneaks in through the basement window 3 minutes after parents’ departure and a blessed 2 hours before parents set to return, the cat shooed off the couch , couch horizontally occupied by two corpi of hormones at the ready, moves attempted and thwarted mercilessly, libidos frustrated as the favoured parts of his anatomy turn blue, time flying, still time to try a few things but time running out, 5 minutes left before parents’ return and only one button undone, desperation sets in, boldness trumps discretion, desperate moves starting to work and, oh no!!! the fucking parents’ car pulls up into the driveway. Blood flows north like the great Orinoco in spring and the teenage boy trudges home, bowlegged, a loser.

Final score: Parents 1, teenage boy 0, Spitfires 4 Strawberries 3.

All was not wasted on the night however. The more manly of the Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to go over the gamus petus interruptus. The soothing balm of malt based elixers soon blurred the painful edges of the disappointing evening. Stories of past victories and conquests were recounted, backs slapped and credulity suspended as tales of long forgotten glory stretched to the land of improbability.

3 Blue, 4 Guinness, 5 Black and Tan, 2 Steamwhistle, 1 Bud, 3 pounds of chicken wings and visions of what might have been were bittersweetly consumed.