Alright b’ys, so I’m up in the bleachers, right, mindin’ me own business with a beer so cold it could stun a seal, watchin’ what can only be described as a full-tilt donnybrook for dead last in the FHL. Galaxies versus the Aerostars. Loser stays loser, winner gets braggin’ rights and maybe a shred of self-respect.
Now the Galaxies comes in buzzin’, lookin’ for their third win on the trot, which around here is basically a heater worthy of a parade down Water Street. These two crews tangled just a few games ago—month or so back now—and I’ll tell ya, that Galaxies win was about as controversy-free as a kitchen party with a stolen accordion. So naturally, tensions were higher’n a seagull on a hotdog.
Galaxies skated as-drafted this time, b’ys. New look. Lines all shuffled up like a deck of cards at Nan’s table. Took a bit to settle, and I’ll say this much: they were hemmed in their own end more than a cod in a trap. Aerostars throwin’ rubber from everywhere—slot, point, rebounds, greasy ones—Jesus Mary and Joseph. But Adams? My son. The man was busier than a one-armed bricklayer in St. John’s and stoppin’ everything. Pads, glove, chest, vibes alone. Wouldn’t matter.
Then, against all logic and the laws of nature, Galaxies opens the scorin’. Gates buries one, clean as ya like, off feeds from Blatt and Rochna. Proper hockey goal. Crowd’s mutterin’. Aerostars lookin’ stunned. And before they can cop on—bang—Galaxies gets another. Alderman fires it, puck hits Ruggiero square in the arse, shoots straight up in the air like it was scared, lands behind Cannon, and trickles in like it had a mind of its own. Luckier than findin’ a two-four on sale, but they all count the same, b’ys. 2-0 Galaxies goin’ into the third. I’m laughin’ into me beer.
Third period rolls around and the Aerostars finally gets one. Beaut of a shot too. But of course there’s nonsense. One ref calls it a goal while skatin’ past like he’s late for bingo night. Other ref never seen a thing. Adams is givin’ it to ‘em, plead in’ his case like a fella fightin’ a parking ticket. Then Blatt—sweet sufferin’ Jaysus—pipes up and rats himself out, says it went in. Honesty like that don’t belong in beer league, b’y. Goal stands. 2-1 and everyone’s knotted up tighter’n boot laces in February.
Now Blatt, bless ‘im, couldn’t hit the empty net if it owed ‘im money, which was deadly entertainment from the stands. Whole place buzzin’. But with about two minutes left, he did bury one proper and sealed it. 3-1 Galaxies. Aerostars shoulders slump. You could feel the existential dread from up where I was sittin’.
Final buzzer goes and there ya have it: Galaxies on a bona fide winning streak. Things are lookin’ up, b’ys. I’m not sayin’ 2026 is their year… but come February? Stranger things have happened in rinks with worse ice and colder beer.
Some game. Some carry-on.
Stay where yer to ’til I comes where yer at.
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