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Thursday, March 04, 2010

Rebound

Killer Strawberries 2 B*****ds 1 (SO)

Game Report

March 3, 2010

Last night, the Killer Strawberries showed once again what they can do when their backs are against the wall, when there is no tomorrow, when it’s do or die and when they run out of clich├ęs. Facing elimination against the swift skating B****ds, they came to play and play they did.

It should be noted at the outset that Mr. Adversity was stalking the arena right up til game time. Warrin’ Peace was a no show, having entered a witless protection program somewhere on Manitoulin Island. The redoubtable Ice Marshall, who in a match earlier in the week against the detested Aviation Iceholes had sacrificed his fragile body for the good of the team, was unable to dress, being confined to bedrest at the Aloha Baby Compound under the excellent medical and other care of twin nurse sisters Candy and Mandy Delicious. “It’s been a hard ho to row” (or something to that effect) stated the IMW in his pre-game conference call to the team. “I’ll be back soon to do whatever I can to ensure our third championship in 4 years.”

Taking over bench duties, just fresh from his 14th stint at the Betty Ford, Paunch Imlach exhorted and excoriated his new squad to higher efforts. The team responded like Shiny to the dinner bell. Worn-E had his best game of the season, riffing magical musical numbers of hockey elegance, and left etched into the ice surface scrawlings worthy of any French Impressionist. Not once did he clamour for his nitro, which was securely ensconced in the inside mickey pocket of Paunch’s favourite smoking jacket.

The Vice, haggard and worn from out from monitoring the progress of his youngest daughter’s first encounter with childbirth (it was girl, Emmy Liz, born March 3, 2010 at 2:12am, wearing a hockey helmet and very tiny bob skates), put his hockey sagacity and his blazing slowness on display. With the game tied at 1-1 and with under 2 minutes left to go in the very tight match, the Vice found himself on the ass end of a 2 on 0. Realizing he would not catch the streaking B****d puck handler, he concentrated his efforts on the trailing player. The streaking B****d made a great move but was stymied by the sharp Monsieur LePlug as the poor B****d slammed his sorry self into the end boards. As the puck lay tantalizingly close to the goal line, unattended and screaming for attention, the Vice expertly lifted the straggler’s stick before the stunned fellow could deposit the biscuit into the slightly open cage: disaster averted and score still tied.

The Vice's defence partners, Shiny and P. Gumbington Pettigrew III, were superb: Shiny was truly stellar with his frequent offensive forays and defensive legerdemain. Gumby’s recollection of his performance had him self-rated at an 11 out 10. He actually played at a 9 out of 10 level, the only flaw in his game being his relentless attempts to get Coach Paunch to deliver his nearly useless missives to the forwards on the bench. Fortunately, those forwards have always been wise enough to discount Gumbo’s advice by 50% and then to ignore what is left.

On offence, MagBoy was a human buzzsaw and were it not for his Vice-like dedication to inaccuracy, could have a potted an easy couple. Archilles contributed the first marker of the game, a beauty now on video display in the Smutsonian Institute, housed in his basement crawlspace. Freight Train fought off his African jet lag just in time to suffer from hands colder than a bishop’s embrace. Still, he had an excellent passing game. Dr. Thug, self-medicated and as content as a kitten in a mouse-infested yarn factory, skated as if mired in quicksand, yet still managed to contribute offensively (or so he claimed after the game to his adoring audience of minus 1).

Pyjama Man and Bing Crossbah were solid, with Bing being double teamed most of the night. In the shootout, Pymama Man took the first Strawbs’ penalty shot and flung a mean backhander high into the B****d’s cage. Crossbah, although reluctant to take the second shot, did not disappoint. He faked left, then right, then left again, called his grandma on his cell for advice, kicked the puck up to his forehand, twirled about and launched a low drive into the net. Joy erupted on the Strawbs’ side of the rink, the B***ds having missed their second attempt, once again shut down by the Man, Monsieur LePlug.

With the victory, the Killer Strawberries begin a best 2 out of 3 series against their favourite team to hate: the Aviation Iceholes. It promises to be ugly.

Post game (12:15am EST), the exhausted Strawbs were in no shape to scurry off to the Terminal Tavren. Alternate means of celebration were found.

xx ---, yyy ----, -z2+2x+4 ---------, a pound of licorice and visions of a glorious destiny were consumed.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Hahaha, Yes!

The Vice

Anonymous said...

Go Strawbs Go! March to the Cup