Depleted But Not Defeated

Game Report

February 8, 2010

Killer Strawberries 6 Free Agents 6

It was something all aging veterans dread: a bench too short. With over 300 years of life experience missing, the rest of the Strawb nation was asked to take on a bunch of very quick and very determined Free Agents, bent on knocking off their handsome adversaries for the evening. Gone was Freight Train Laronde, running around half naked in Kenya, looking for a cold beer. Gone was Achilles Perron, firmly ensconced, rum drinks in hand, in the deck chair of a luxury liner plying the heavenly waters of the blue Caribbean. Gone was Warrin’ Peace, surreptitiously ogling the alluringly-clad babes forever parading before him, as his wife, the beautiful Samara Dessert, toasted her limbs on the warm sands of some popular playa in the Dominican Republic.

Gone was Dr. Thug, self-concussed once again, dreaming of hockey glory in the darkness of his diminishing mind. Gone was Shiny Sean Brightly, whose excuse for missing was so febrile, so laughable, that he proffered none in his defence. Gone was Worn-E A535, forced to drive his kids, at the last minute, to the opening of a new ice cream shop located somewhere near Verner: a town whose motto is “We may not be big, but we sure are small”.

To compensate for the difficulties, the Strawbs’ coaching staff, recently honoured by the Bud Light Super Bowl Promotion Committee for its “Excellence in Stewardess Training and Undercover Operations”, moved Monsieur LePlug out of the nets into a forward position. The goal was tended by some young fellow they had found earlier in the day wandering about the Voyageur Hotel Cocktail Lounge in search of meaning in his life. He obviously found it, as he performed admirably in nets, despite using a white cane for a goalie stick.

M. LePlug stepped up to the plate (figuratively, of course) and scored a lovely goal and assisted on one other. MagBoy and Bing Crossbah buzzed about with purpose and each recorded an important tally at an important time in an unimportant game. Pyjama Man, while in physical attendance at the match, redefined the terms “languorous yet truculent”. The Ice Marshall was nothing less than something, potting 3 markers on the night, the last one coming with just 39 seconds left in the game, capping a two goals in 3 minutes comeback by the undermanned Killer Strawberries.

The defence for the match consisted of 106 years of hard living and unspecified liver damage. The Vice and his fellow blueliner, Gawd, never left the ice surface all evening. The skated when they had to, coasted when they needed to and did not harangue anyone, including their own team mates, on more than 6 occasions.

After the game, most of the few scrambled over to the Terminal Tavren to catch their breaths and to slag the bloody Mofos who, being absent, had caused them to sweat.

2 Stella, 4 Black and Tan, 2 Keiths white, 2 pounds of emu wings fried in transfattied shark oil and more than a few “Thank G*d That’s Over’s” were consumed.