Hockey Muse: Revenge of the Sieve

…or not.

The Buckeyes’ niche in my memory is fond; seeing them lose, I first listened to providers of pep music shout their ridiculous insults. Time went on, but seeing them get destroyed reminds me; some cruel insults, to my gleeful delight never get old. (Though this time, some self-censorship occurred during the concluding line. No problem. I know how it should go.)

The pep yells weren’t completely de rigueur; this competition, unlike previous ones, included them extolling whichever food (i.e. pretzels) they were enjoying. Plus, when the guy in the booth told us “One minute left in this period, one minute”, they responded by giving responding yells which prompted him to tell them “You’re welcome.” Fine, except they didn’t begin the proceedings by inquiring, “Hey, “ref”, how much time is left?” Silly omission. Oh well.

But the competition itself kept us interested. We scored quickly, the scorer’s eighth of the winter (to put her in first for our side). Then, one of the others served two minutes for hooking. She returned to the ice without incident. Concluding kills would be simple, one of ours duly went to the box.

Turns out, we scored then too. The scorer moved to the net by herself for her eighth of the winter (thus tying her for first). Soon enough, “full strength!” The pep crowd points out our strength is consistently full, five on the ice or six.

We scored the third time to begin the second; this, plus the netminders switching ends, prompted yet more snicker-worthy insults. Closer to the end of the second, I didn’t think the puck crossed their line, but the guy in the box thought it did. So, it’s someone else’s eighth for us, tying her…well, you get it by now.

“FIX” is how the reverse of one ref’s jersey looks. The result is predetermined? Oops.

The third begins with less excitement. Oh well, we don’t need to score twice in every period. Or do we? There’s our fifth, with five minutes left…

“One minute left,” once more, with no preceding question. But it’s fine. With forty-two seconds left, we score once more.

The insults write themselves sometimes.

e rigueur


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