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Tuesday, March 17, 2009

The Leak Leads Strawbs To Championship Victory

Geriatric Juggernaut Rules

Killer Strawberries 3 Redstripes 1

Game Report

March 16, 2009

Last night, a standing room only crowd of Killer Strawberry puck bunnies, wives, girlfriends, mistresses, family pets and few unsavoury hangers-on witnessed an on-ice exhibition of cunning old man hockey at its finest, as the Strawbs neutered its ill-mannered opponent with surgical precision on route to a decisive 3 to1 victory and a second championship in 3 years.

It was not easy. The obstreperous little bastards put up a fine fight, fuelled by disdain for their elders and a childlike vexation which too frequently manifested itself in the face of adversity. They are still young. They will learn. Maybe not. Who cares. We creamed the little mofos.

It was a fitting ending to a glorious Strawbs’ mini-era. For the last 5 years, Jesse The Leak has been tending the pipes for his favourite team ever, amassing an amazing 75-10-5 record over the stretch, despite or perhaps as a result of his numerous reconditioning stints with the Strawbs’ farm team’s farm team, the Buttface Bottomfeeders of Buttface, Alaska. Last night’s championship sudden death final was The Leak’s perfectly rendered swan song with his beloved hockey team. And boy did he show up to play. Barely 10 seconds into the game he was called upon to bar the door, and bar the door he did all night long. The petulant Redstripes squad could not solve him. He used his pads, the butt of his stick, the tips of his skates, the top of his helmet, a small dollop of luck and all else at his disposal to constantly foist their scoring attempts. He was certainly the game’s first star. His number, whatever it is, will be retired in a lavish ceremony later this summer at the Killer Strawberry headquarters and playland: the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii. He may even be invited to attend the ceremony, as long as he promises to behave, take no photos and sign the usual gag orders.

The Leak had plenty of backup on the evening. Everyone contributed a verse, except, of course, for Shiny Sean Brightly who was busily sunning his sausage in Fort Homodale, Florida. Shiny, we saved you some victory Scotch…NOT!

The defence was magnificent. Wave after wave of Redstripes was expertly manoeuvred into the corners where they were summarily relieved of the puck. Like an expert circus manager,Freight Train Laronde, pressed into a defensive role with Shiny’s unfortunate unauthorized abdication, used his extra long stick to repeatedly steer his opponents into nowhereland. The Vice, a veritable octopus of impudent impedence, clutched, grabbed and discumbobulated anything and everything that threatened to score. The Butcher must have had a big fight with his mistress because even his team mates were scared of the black temper he brought to the arena. You’ve got to admire a guy who, with only enough money in his pocket to either get his skates or his stick sharpened, opted to tune up his stick. To his credit, he did return the two beating hearts and the one spleen he managed to remove from his opponents’ bodies during the most heated parts of the game action. And like a true professional, he escaped unscathed except for that boneheaded penalty he took with 2 minutes remaining.

P. Gumbington Pettigrew, a zealous advocate of pre-game sex, with or without a partner, was solid on the blueline. His best play was coolly tucking the puck under a sprawling Leak, late in the game, as the puck was slowly trickling across the goal line.

Up front, it was all out effort all the time. Warrin’Peace, strung out on the patch, scored the game’s first goal, a snapshot that he ripped over the goalie’s left shoulder into a space smaller than that occupied by the Butcher’s brain. Dr. Thug tallied the second marker for the Strawbs, a soft hands goal that caused women’s hearts everywhere to beat just a little faster. MagPie, the team’s pepperpot and self-proclaimed wit (he is only half right on the latter point), delivered the coup de grace, the team’s third goal late in the third period, sealing the victory for the Strawbs. Archilles Perron, still recuperating from a vacuum attachment injury to his lower body, skated like he was 40 again. Slickery Mac was at his tricky slickest, ragging the puck like Eddie Shack during penalty kills, weaving expertly through oncoming traffic and making excellent choices on every part of the ice surface. Pyjama Boy, with his enamoratta looking on in full swoon, played a fine brand of feisty hockey, never losing his cool, always an offensive threat.

And let’s not forget the contribution of the Ice Marshal. He had duties both as player and coach. He juggled lines, worked penalty kill pairings, directed traffic in and out of the penalty box and still managed to create havoc when havoc was needed. “I just wanted to contribute in any way I could, what with my broken foot, severed aorta and post nasal drip. The trick is to never give up. I attribute my never-give-uppedness to the excellent upbringing I had at The Broda, the orphanage I grew up in, just across the street from the Carlton Cashbox. You can learn a lot from good nuns in such a fine place, especially from the older ones who take a liking to you, if you know what I mean. Thank you Sisters of Perpetual Suffering, and mostly you, Sister Vava Voom. ”

After the game, the Strawbs dressing room was a veritable zoo, with Scotch flowing, butts being towel whipped, hairs mussed and general anarchy reigning supreme. The festivities carried over to the Terminal Tavren, where the Teeter Kennedy Room was commandeered by the victors and their rabid fans. The party continued into the wee hours, with the lies growing more unbelievable, the insults more hug-like and the patrons more pissed. The Leak’s imminent departure was dutifully rued, the fans thanked and then thanked again. Teammates were toasted and roasted. Backs were slapped and funny handshakes exchanged. All in all, it was sublime.

407 Stella, 2 Appletinis, 354 Bass, 5692 and a half Guinness, 321 pounds of chicken wings, 1 celery stick and the sweet elixir of success were consumed

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Way to go Boys!!

Now I have an interesting question to pose....What with up to five of the Killer Straws, playing on the Reunion Team in any given year, the question asked is "Why the hell don't you bring your A game to Kempville every year!? You don't have to save it all for that over slightly less important league you play in.

But hey bask in the glory, and savour the moment. The Hooter Girls salute you!

Uber Hooter