Plop

Killer Strawberries 2 Turbo Beavers 5

Game Report

March 12, 2012

It’s too bad the Killer Strawberries did not call up Salty, the team’s blind, one –legged canine mascot to bolster its roster on Monday night. It would have been a marked improvement.

The squad started the game shorthanded. Freight Train Laronde was visiting Fidel and Raoul at an undisclosed, all-you-can drink resort somewhere in South Cuba. Reports from undisclosed sources state that much Marxist philosophy has been discussed over endless Cuba Libres and Habana Ron Viejo shooters. Raoul is almost convinced the country should have its own Killer Strawberries franchise to promote goodwill with Canada and heavy drinking among the Cubaneros.

Dash Hound was nowhere to be found at game time. No card. No phone call. No email. “We’re not his stinkin’ girlfriend” ranted an unnamed member of the Executive. “The Strawbs are all about communication: on-ice and off. If you have to go to the VD clinic, let us now. We can get you the team discount.”

Shiny Sean Brightly was somewhere in Florida, ostensibly looking at real estate. Wethinks he was looking at other stuff. After all, it is spring break in the U.S.

On ice, it was a disaster of biblical proportions. The Strawbs were down 3-0 before the ice had dried. Certainly, the Marquis DeSave could not be blamed, according to the Marquis himself. “The coaching staff should never have relied exclusively on Trout Lake Driftwood to patrol the blueline. Do the math: 1+1+1= minus 8 on the night. Small pylons would have been more useful.”
As it was, the Vice was gulping air through his lower sphincter, the Butcher was as effective as the rhythm method and Gawdawful Gumby put 3 goals into his own net.” I haven’t seen this much rubber since the 2006 Pride Parade” lamented the distraught Marquis.
Up front, things were a little better but not much. Sure, 5 posts were hit, but a good team doesn’t let adversity get it down. Lil Wagner, the fastest guy on the ice, continued to mistake the end boards for the back of the net. The Turbo goalie got so confident that Lil would shoot and miss, that he had tea served in his crease during any shift involving the Beer Store employee. Mayor Maynot, the second fastest guy on the ice, was content feeling the rush of cold air through his disheveled locks as he gamboled aimlessly about the frozen pond, visions of RRSP trailer fees dancing in his head.

Dr. Thelonius Thug could barely move. Both his knees were encased in 7 pounds of bubble wrap and surgical tape, his left clavicle lumbered under the weight of the four ice packs strapped to his shoulder, a constant river of phlegm poured from his esophagus and his eyes were crusted shut. He was the team’s second best player on the night, and knocked over several pieces of the goalie’s tea service.

And where was MagBoy? By the end of the first period, the human hurricane was downgraded to “scattered showers with a chance of choking.” Twice he was set up for an easy tap in. Twice, he couldn’t get it up.
Pyjama Man, cheered on by his co-home owner, the gorgeous Loans Jones, floated about with all the redundancy of a eunuch in New Orleans bordello. His one shot on goal came of a flaccid flicker by the Butcher which PJ Man inadvertently deflected with his helmet toward the Turbo net.
The only ray of sunshine came from the Ice Marshall. He scored the team’s first goal on a solo effort. By ragging the puck for 2 minutes and 32 seconds, he killed the Turbo Beavers 5 on 3 advantage and then, using his new longer hockey weapon, riled up all the Beavers with his amazing stick work, swept in on the surprised pipeguarder and promptly deposited the biscuit in the lower left hand corner of the net, smashing the tea service to smithereens in the process. Now that’s leadership!

After the game, the squad retreated to the dressing room, in the knowledge that they had played their last game of the year. The garbage can was sterilized and filled with Scotch. Dr. Thug added the unmelted ice from his shoulder poultice. Straws were distributed and the boys gulped away at the golden ambrosia like it was St. Paddy’s Day. Miss White Go Go Boots was called and she arrived in her chartreuse limo, driven by an unemployed gravedigger with a lisp. She arranged to have each Strawb deposited at the location of his choice. Everyone chose the Terminal Tavren.

At the Tavren, Miss White Go Go Boots was toasted (or was it fried?). In any event, the sting of the year end loss was soothed away and, after a rousing team cheer, the squad dedicated itself to a Championship in 2013.

A garbage pail full of 20 year old Glenfiddich Extra Lovely, 411 brews of various provenance and the intoxicating promise of a better year next year were consumed.