Game report
October 29, 2009
ALU 3 Killer Strawberries 1
There was not enough perfume in France to disguise the malodorous effort put forth by the Strawberries in last night’s matchup with the swift skating ALU Warriors. Every Strawbs’ colon, except for that of the Plug, contributed to the stink.
The Plug played exceedingly well, stopping the Warriors on 99% of the 100 two on ones and three on ones which resulted from the over-eager defence’s desire to score a goal and thus impress the team’s executive’s masseuse and psychotherapist prominently perched in the Strawbs’ corporate box located just above the Zamboni room. “Look at me, look at me, Svetlana, I am a goal scorer” the Vice, Gumby and Shiny seemed to scream with each ill-advised foray into the opposition’s end. It was so bad that, on the last desperation faceoff in the ALU end, with 5 seconds left on the clock, both defencemen abandoned the blueline, lined up with the wingers in front of the net and could be found at the buzzer, tangled together in the mesh behind the Warriors’ net. Eau de colon indeed. The only player in position on the final play was Freight Train Laronde (pressed into a defensive role in the waning minutes of the last period), who was busy picking up the water bottles and loose pucks on the Strawbs’ bench. His actions turned out to be the evening’s biggest contribution by a defenceman.
Up front, things were a little better but not by more than the width of a wet dream. Warrin Peace appeared lost on the frozen surface as the day’s percosets lost their potency. Bing! Crossbar, a raw recruit from AA novice hockey out of Zit, Switzerland, ragged the puck so long in the opposition’s end, the Strawbs were able to execute 3 line changes before he tired himself out and dropped into a lump onto the faceoff circle just to the right of the Warriors’ goalie, who, during Crossbar’s exhibition of fanciful futility, managed to smoke a carton of contraband cigarettes, two cigarettes at a time.
Archilles Perron, playing on his wrong wing no matter on which side he lined up, displayed a lethargy unmatched in most retirement homes. Magboy pranced about, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Freight Train’s biggest contribution on the evening has already been mentioned. He appeared to be distracted by his inability to choose an appropriate title for his doctoral thesis on the role of pencil colour upon heuristic student performance in grade 3 music class…wethinks “Bullshit” would do nicely.
Even the Ice Marshal contributed to the odiferous on-ice offerings. The morning’s massage and psychotherapy session, while it certainly helped him to deal temporarily with the demons of a difficult yet productive youth, left him as ineffective as the Vice at an out of town hockey tournament. Still, Svetlana would understand.
At the post game debriefing, the mood turned more jovial. The assembled Strawbs, in accordance with custom, put the whole thing into context. As MagBoy put it so well, “It is through the bitterness of loss that the sweetness of the beer is released”…or some such other tripe as is his wont to dispense.
4 Stella, 2 Keiths Stout, 1 Bass, 3 Rickards White, 2 pounds of overcooked chicken wings and more than a modicum of sweetness were consumed.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Jet Rangers Shot Down By Surging Strawberries
Game report
October 22, 2009
Killer Strawberries 3 Jet Rangers 1
As I write this report quite early on Friday morning shortly after the Strawbs’ victory last night, I am struck by a very penetrating question posed to me by Svetlana as she alternately strokes, kneads and drills into my screaming hamstring. Svetlana is no ordinary, run of the mill masseuse. She recently escaped from the former Soviet Union where she was the chief masseuse and team psychotherapist for the Red Army hockey team. She has set up in North Bay where she has restricted her practice to elite athletes and handsome hockey players. If you are, as is the Ice Marshal, qualified under both rubrics, you are indeed a lucky man.
As she teased another spasm of blissful delight from my aching musculature, she asked: “Monsieur Hice Marechal, hiz eet a plaisir playing wis de Killer Fruits?” Still intoxicated by her lilting, French infused voice and the hypnotic rhythm of her able fingertips, I replied: “Ma Cherie, less talk, more pain please.”
Still her probing question haunted me right up to the time of this writing. Certainly, there is a pleasure in beating a band of testosterone fueled hooligans such as the Jet Rangers, especially when they attempt to taunt you at the opening face off with juvenile quips along the lines of “Didn’t you coach my Grampa?” or “Keep your head up old man” or “Didn’t you play on the same line as Moses McLean when he was in peewee?”. Obviously, this rationale would be insufficient. In reality, the true pleasure lies in executing the crisp pass, ringing one off the crossbar, recovering the rebound and burying it in the mesh just above the glass; it is watching Freight Train Laronde get derailed by the tiny edge of paint on the blueline causing him to take a header on a breakaway. It is laughing as Archilles Perron, a once proud man, throws up in the opposition’s faceoff circle while the puck is being passed around in his own end. It is watching Warrin Peace swoop aimlessly about the frozen surface, scrawling indecipherable runes into the virgin ice, oblivious to time and space. But most of all, the pleasure is most intense as the scabs of on ice errors are delicately picked at, post game, by the merciless wits in the dressing room.
I will certainly give my considered answer to Svetlana at our next encounter which will inevitably follow our match this Thursday. As a trained psychologist, I am sure that upon reflection, she will have some interesting insights into what or more precisely, who, is giving me such a big pain in the gluteus maximus. Even if she does not, my gluteus will nevertheless be in good hands.
October 22, 2009
Killer Strawberries 3 Jet Rangers 1
As I write this report quite early on Friday morning shortly after the Strawbs’ victory last night, I am struck by a very penetrating question posed to me by Svetlana as she alternately strokes, kneads and drills into my screaming hamstring. Svetlana is no ordinary, run of the mill masseuse. She recently escaped from the former Soviet Union where she was the chief masseuse and team psychotherapist for the Red Army hockey team. She has set up in North Bay where she has restricted her practice to elite athletes and handsome hockey players. If you are, as is the Ice Marshal, qualified under both rubrics, you are indeed a lucky man.
As she teased another spasm of blissful delight from my aching musculature, she asked: “Monsieur Hice Marechal, hiz eet a plaisir playing wis de Killer Fruits?” Still intoxicated by her lilting, French infused voice and the hypnotic rhythm of her able fingertips, I replied: “Ma Cherie, less talk, more pain please.”
Still her probing question haunted me right up to the time of this writing. Certainly, there is a pleasure in beating a band of testosterone fueled hooligans such as the Jet Rangers, especially when they attempt to taunt you at the opening face off with juvenile quips along the lines of “Didn’t you coach my Grampa?” or “Keep your head up old man” or “Didn’t you play on the same line as Moses McLean when he was in peewee?”. Obviously, this rationale would be insufficient. In reality, the true pleasure lies in executing the crisp pass, ringing one off the crossbar, recovering the rebound and burying it in the mesh just above the glass; it is watching Freight Train Laronde get derailed by the tiny edge of paint on the blueline causing him to take a header on a breakaway. It is laughing as Archilles Perron, a once proud man, throws up in the opposition’s faceoff circle while the puck is being passed around in his own end. It is watching Warrin Peace swoop aimlessly about the frozen surface, scrawling indecipherable runes into the virgin ice, oblivious to time and space. But most of all, the pleasure is most intense as the scabs of on ice errors are delicately picked at, post game, by the merciless wits in the dressing room.
I will certainly give my considered answer to Svetlana at our next encounter which will inevitably follow our match this Thursday. As a trained psychologist, I am sure that upon reflection, she will have some interesting insights into what or more precisely, who, is giving me such a big pain in the gluteus maximus. Even if she does not, my gluteus will nevertheless be in good hands.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Strawbs Bounce Bad Czechs
Game Report
Strawbs 9 BodyCzechs 3
October 19, 2009
Boulstered by the absence of penalty pig Butcher Brophey, who is in Portugal studying the mating habits of his ovine cousins, the Killer Strawberries sent a 9-3 NSF (not sufficient firepower) warning to a fine but still inexperienced BodyCzechs squad.
The Strawbs scored early and often and were solidly backed up by Rich “The Plug” Delorme who has replaced the once irreplaceable Jesse The Leak, at one time referred to as the Martin Brodeur of the Canadore Intramural League (by his mother and girlfriend). Mr. Leak is spending his hockey retirement putting tax evaders behind bars and knitting tuques for wayward cats. On more than one occasion the Plug was left to fend for himself as the Strawbs’ defence carried out its plan to test him early and often by allowing frequent breakaway situations to develop. The Plug performed admirably and, being the good rookie he is, did not curse his porous defence except in French an under his breath.
Another Strawb also made his debut on the evening. Chris Crossey, hereinafter and forever to be referred to as Bing! Crossbar, put in an inspired performance: inspired by Gumby’s threat to ask for his return to the Butthole Bottom Feeders if he failed to meet the incredibly low standards of the team. Although he did not score (or maybe he did, who knows), he managed to ring a couple off the iron with his quick snapper, thus securing his place on the squad until further notice.
Gumby, fresh from his Battle of The Blades appearance at the old Maple Leaf Gardens, was a little frustrated because there were no referees to harangue. He did, however, draw attention to himself on one occasion when one of the picks on his new blades got stuck on the blueline, resulting in one of the finest pirouettes ever executed by a Killer Strawberry. The Executive advised him post game to use his old skates which surely must have most of the mistakes squeezed out of them by now.
At the end of the game, The Vice was presented with a bottle of 55 year old Scotch, which Scotch was born in the same year as he was. It was obvious that the Scotch had aged much better than the Vice had...it was a lot smoother and far less cranky.
The team, or most of it, then repaired to the Terminal Tavren to continue the evaluation of the squad’s talent, old and new. It was concluded that, with the new additions and the absence of the Butcher, there was a good chance of repeating as league champs. It was good to start the year on a high note.
2 Keiths Stout, 3 Guinness, 3 Stella, 4 regular Keiths, 2 dozen chicken wings and some tall tales of figure skating exploits at the Carlton Cash Box were consumed.
Strawbs 9 BodyCzechs 3
October 19, 2009
Boulstered by the absence of penalty pig Butcher Brophey, who is in Portugal studying the mating habits of his ovine cousins, the Killer Strawberries sent a 9-3 NSF (not sufficient firepower) warning to a fine but still inexperienced BodyCzechs squad.
The Strawbs scored early and often and were solidly backed up by Rich “The Plug” Delorme who has replaced the once irreplaceable Jesse The Leak, at one time referred to as the Martin Brodeur of the Canadore Intramural League (by his mother and girlfriend). Mr. Leak is spending his hockey retirement putting tax evaders behind bars and knitting tuques for wayward cats. On more than one occasion the Plug was left to fend for himself as the Strawbs’ defence carried out its plan to test him early and often by allowing frequent breakaway situations to develop. The Plug performed admirably and, being the good rookie he is, did not curse his porous defence except in French an under his breath.
Another Strawb also made his debut on the evening. Chris Crossey, hereinafter and forever to be referred to as Bing! Crossbar, put in an inspired performance: inspired by Gumby’s threat to ask for his return to the Butthole Bottom Feeders if he failed to meet the incredibly low standards of the team. Although he did not score (or maybe he did, who knows), he managed to ring a couple off the iron with his quick snapper, thus securing his place on the squad until further notice.
Gumby, fresh from his Battle of The Blades appearance at the old Maple Leaf Gardens, was a little frustrated because there were no referees to harangue. He did, however, draw attention to himself on one occasion when one of the picks on his new blades got stuck on the blueline, resulting in one of the finest pirouettes ever executed by a Killer Strawberry. The Executive advised him post game to use his old skates which surely must have most of the mistakes squeezed out of them by now.
At the end of the game, The Vice was presented with a bottle of 55 year old Scotch, which Scotch was born in the same year as he was. It was obvious that the Scotch had aged much better than the Vice had...it was a lot smoother and far less cranky.
The team, or most of it, then repaired to the Terminal Tavren to continue the evaluation of the squad’s talent, old and new. It was concluded that, with the new additions and the absence of the Butcher, there was a good chance of repeating as league champs. It was good to start the year on a high note.
2 Keiths Stout, 3 Guinness, 3 Stella, 4 regular Keiths, 2 dozen chicken wings and some tall tales of figure skating exploits at the Carlton Cash Box were consumed.
Monday, October 19, 2009
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