HOLY HELL, THERE WAS HOCKEY!

By: Adam Briner, adamcbriner@yahoo.com

I always thought the saying “the pen is mightier than the sword� was a load of crap. However, a few weeks ago I penned an article asking NHL hockey players to bury the hatchet and end their strike. Well, my pen did prove to be mightier than the libido of Marv Albert in a corpse-filled dungeon, because apparently a titillating Stanley Cup Final has come and went. Do people like hockey again?

I know, I know, I didn’t know either. As soon as I found out, though, I rushed to my Tivo, which is set to record all 10 of the televised hockey games in any given season. Low and behold, there they were – seven games to decide who gets to drink champagne from the large platinum one-time seat of an Edmontonian prostitute. Viva Mark Messier and his penchant for call girls!

I won’t describe all the games, although I did watch them all with an excitement that caused my constant semi to emerge into a full erection. My imaginary girlfriend likes hockey now, I can tell you that. I went to my local library and checked out the infofilm newspaper archives on one of those machines featured in every movie of the “detective thriller� genre. The only game that seemed to get any press was the seventh and deciding contest. Go figure. But it was game six that turned me harder than a two month old loaf of unrefrigerated sour dough bread. Unfortunately, some kid hit two dingers in a CWS game that evening, and the tale of Partido Seis was bumped from the papes completely. I will, therefore, describe game six with a level of description that American newspapers deem unnecessary for hockey.

Forgive me if I use some hockey terminology that you, a less enthusiastic fan, would have a difficult time understanding.

The game started with all the players from both teams skating onto the ice while carrying large hook-sticks. Kind of like the grim reaper would use for practice. This weapon carrying certainly indicated that there would be a major melee taking place in this game. The two sides fought viciously through the first quarter, sometimes even smashing opposing players into the glass. The referees had a “let them play� attitude and never even called a foul when this would happen. Goals were scored, certainly, but these mattered little in the presence of the warrior-like brutality exhibited by the players.

The second quarter was a defensive battle with guys hitting each other with sticks like it was Lord of the Flies meets my parents’ sex life. They did everything in their power to keep the black disc out of their respective nets. The acts included hitting each other frequently, especially about the knees. They also increased the amount of smashing into the glass that took place. The “puck,� as the black disk is called, never went in the net, but unlike soccer, did not tamper with the intensity of the game. In fact, it only got more intense in the third quarter.

The third quarter was actually too captivating, empowering, brutal, and uncivilized to describe. It was so awesome that they decided to call the game before even playing the final quarter.

Again, my apologies if I wrote about hockey strategy that is above the novice hockey fan’s head. The game certainly included hitting, smashing, slashing, and Canadians. Well, damn it, if that’s not enough to keep you from going flaccid until next year’s strike shortened season, I don’t know what could do the trick. It’s certainly doing the [hat] trick on me. Get it?