Robbed by blind mice dressed like zebras

Last night, another chapter closed in the long, illustrious though slightly ignominious history of our beer league hockey club.

Our championship hopes were extinguished.

Again.

It has gone that way every year since our team of teachers and bankers and writers and public servants first came to life in the fall of 2003.

Counting the years we have taken to the ice in summer hockey, our team has now gone 14 straight seasons without sipping from the winner’s mug.

Not quite a Toronto Maple Leafs, no-Stanley-Cup-since-1967 drought, but another winless season nonetheless.

That we failed to move on again this year is really no surprise.

We struggled from the start, with an unknown goaltender manning our crease.

He advertised himself as a solid B+ when we recruited him.

He played like an E- at best.

Dude flat out sucked all year long, and we are none too disappointed that he will never mind our net again.

It’s not pro sports, but we all still like to win.

Especially on those cold winter nights when we hit the ice at 11 p.m.

A sieve in net runs counter to the mechanics of winning hockey games, thus the bulk of our struggles being attributed to the guy dodging pucks between our pipes.

Still, despite the mediocre season, we managed to hang in there right until the bitter end.

Last night’s tilt saw us face the number one team in the league.

A team that smoked us all year long.

October 26 – A 7-1 loss.

December 9 – A 4-1 loss.

January 27 – A 5-1 loss.

March 13 – A 3-0 loss.

Outscored 19-3 in four games. Sources say a record like that could not possibly bode well with all the marbles on the line, particularly with B+ but really E- in net.

Then the improbable happened.

We escaped the opening stanza tied at one, on the strength of a three-hop slap shot from the point that knotted the proceedings with but eight seconds left to play in the penultimate period.

We were still in it.

And despite allowing a goal on the first shot of the game, B+ but really E- was acquitting himself quite well in net, making himself large when necessary, and, to our complete and utter shock, actually stopping the puck instead of dodging it.

The final frame went back and forth, with both teams exchanging scoring chances but failing to capitalize.

It was a nail biter, but at least we still had a chance.

Then the inevitable happened.

Crossing the blueline on what looked to be a harmless rush, their leading scorer, later referred to by yours truly as a Fat F**k, unleashed what should have been a stoppable slapper from just inside the line.

An unobstructed shot from that far out has got to be stopped, especially with mere minutes remaining in a do-or-die game.

B+ went E- at the worst possible time.

But we rallied again, on a nifty bang-bang play from in close with our goalie sitting on the bench in favour of an extra attacker.

Only a half-minute left on the clock. A shootout loomed. Breakaways would surely settle this match.

We face-off a final time at centre ice. Moments later the puck is behind out net. A wild high-stick to the face of our defenceman goes uncalled by the veteran referee who chooses to look the other way.

We are incredulous.

Then a scramble in the corner.

A pass to the front.

A kick at the puck from the player in green.

A goal is signalled by the same referee who seconds prior let pass the high stick without calling the obvious penalty.

We protest with all our might, while above our heads the clock stops with only 9 ticks left on it.

Their captain stops beside me and calls it a good goal. His teammate got a stick on it, he would say, and to make himself sound legit he tells me there should have in fact been a penalty called on the high stick. If he speaks the truth on the penalty, surely he is the voice of reason on the goal.

Shut the f**k up.

I am riled up.

We disagree on the blown call.

He gets called a Fat F**k.

More than once.

He asks me if the highest level of hockey I have played is Pee Wee B, failing to note the irony.

We are in the 6th division of 12 in a senior men’s hockey league. A beer league. A garage league. It doesn’t say much about you that you have to play this far down, against all the Pee Wee B puck pushers, to score all your goals.

He doesn’t seem to get it.

So I call him a Fat F**k again.

He gets that.

Behind the net, the referees are still contemplating the final call. They call the captains in close to explain.

Didn’t see the kick...

Can’t reverse the call...

Good goal...

A stick goes twirling through the air like a doomed chopper’s lost propeller. It is not mine.

On this night I hurl only insults, though in retrospect the stick did make a compelling point.

The game is over.

We have lost.

Our championship hopes extinguished.

Robbed, we were.

By two blind mice dressed like zebras.