When Good Things Nearly Go Very Very Wrong

Once upon a Men's beer league hockey tournament, yours truly witnessed a 300-pound Sackvillian lay out an unsuspecting teammate of mine with a hit not unlike Stevens-on-Lindros... except that particular hit took place in a professional league where body contact was actually permitted. Said Scott Stevensy Sackvillian then proceeded to talk smack to my prone and probably concussed teammate while an arena of stunned teammates, spouses and children looked and listened on in disbelief. And so began my weekend...

The Men's beer league tournament then continued. Our first game, which included the above indiscretion, was still tied with one minute and change remaining. Another Sackvillian broke down the wing, in choppy beer league strides, and was taken out clumsily by our defenseman - and the two continued their slide into our poor, defenseless-save-for-the-thirty-pounds-of-padding goalie, thereby popping his shoulder out of its socket. While this was (i) very gross and (ii) probably pretty painful, it was also (iii) rather unfortunate for our team, who in the absence of a backup goalie was forced to play the last minute or so without a goalie. This proved to be quite a motivator for our team, and we successfully defended our empty net, salvaging a tie. All things considered, we viewed this as a win, but tournament officials begged to differ...

Post game, our injured goalie made the best use of his one good arm by using it to drink; his other arm hanging limp by his side, going numb. There was a decision to be made - stay and hang out, pull a Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon and pop 'er back into place, or get thee to a hospital ASAP. Enter burly, tattooed, supposed ex-male stripper teammate: "I've popped arms back into place hundreds of times". Half of the room cheered, the other half swallowed their vomit, I inched slowly towards the door. A half dozen cell phones broke out to capture the event. And for a few terrifying minutes, it actually seemed like this was going to happen. Thankfully, good sense prevailed and our one-armed goalie went to the Dartmouth General for repairs.

When said Men's beer league tournament concluded, our team ended up winless - the single tie our high point. Myself: I ended up with two knotted legs, blistered fingers, and some sour memories of a goal called back, a few choice turnovers, and some less-than-sportsmanlike opponents. But it was fun - I drank beer and played hockey, and I nearly witnessed some disgusting, amateur, dressing room medical procedures. Cheers!