Bison 3 Peterborough Phantoms 1
4/1/20
This was to
prove a game nearly spoiled by some of the most bizarre officiating you are
ever likely to see. OK let’s not forget that if there were no men in stripes
there wouldn’t be a game, but at the end of 60 minutes, I was left wondering
whether a ref/lino team composed of Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Louis Braille
and Mister Magoo, could have done a better job. Calls made which shouldn’t have
been, calls not made for blatant infractions, delays in blowing whistles and, according
to one on ice source …. well I won’t say in case I get sued for libel. It all
drove players, coaches and fans on both sides to the brink of tolerance that would
have tested even the patience of Job. Never mind at least we had a game. So
without further admonition, let us proceed to the game itself. I implore you,
dear reader, to read on.
P1 opened and a
flurry of penalties were called. One penalty the Bison backers did like was the
slashing call on Bradley Bowering, not to be confused with Ross Bowers, who is
someone completely different, on 13:06. They called for a hanging, but no rope
(or indeed a tree) could be found. It was to be merely 2 minutes in the penalty
box for Bowering to reflect on his conduct and hopefully emerge 2 minutes later
a repentant and reformed character. He didn’t get the full 2 minutes as Bison
bagged a power play goal whilst Bowering was in mid reflection, but hadn’t yet
moved on to the penitence and reformation bits. Set up by Coach Tait, Adam
Harding found himself in the slot with the biscuit on the end of his twig. Could
he put it in the stringbag? The ghostly D showed as much resistance as a
crouton which had gone soggy after soaking in a bowl of minestrone for half an
hour. They didn’t seem interested in closing Harding down. “Let him have a
shot. Jordan Marr will save it,” they thought. But such thoughts proved to be
erroneous as Marr didn’t save it. The puck flew through the gap between Marr
and post, causing the apparitional visitors profound dismay. 1-0 Bison.
P1 ended with no
further scoring. It had been a strange period with 20 PIMs doled out and a shot
count of 19-10 in the Phantoms’ favour, but with Bison holding the lead. Were
we to see more of the same in P2? In terms of PIMs yes with 22 PIMs to Bison, including
a 2 + 10 for boarding to Dangling Dick Bordowski, 4 PIMs to the Phantoms, a
shot count of 12-6, again in the visitors’ favour, and a goal, but this time an
equalising score on 29:03. It came on the power play with Coach Tait banged up
for roughing. A goal mouth scramble ended up with the puck squirting wide and
behind the net. James Ferrara worked it very quickly across the back of the
goal and out front where an all alone Ales Padelek snapped home for a nicely worked goal. 1-1.
That was all the
scoring for the period, so on 40:00 into P3 we passed and things went a bit
cagey for a while. Neither team wanted to lose the game, which was balanced on
a knife edge, just like the coach in the final scene of the Italian Job – see below.
Enter Bayley
Harewood, showing a talent which belied his 16 years, to score a goal of great
purpleness. How purple? More purple than Prince’s guitar - see below.
On 48:29 Harding
had possession of the puck on the boards and was wondering what he could do
with it. I hope you will allow me a soupçon of a digression here. Griffin was a
scientist who has devoted himself to research into optics and invented a way to
change a body's refractive index to that of air so that it neither absorbs nor
reflects light and thus become invisible. He was, of course, the original
Invisible Man from the 1897 novel of the same name by H.G. Wells. As Harewood
jumped over the wall and made his way into the Phantoms’ defensive zone he
might just as well have been Griffin as the ghostly D didn’t appear to see him
at all. In fact, Harding may also have been unaware of the Harewood presence
and he, Harewod that is, had to bang on the ice with his stick like a demented
woodpecker to attract Harding’s attention. The ploy worked and Harding sent an
Ooo Matron peach of a pass to the Harewood stick tape, one Welshman to another.
Cymru am byth. He, Harewood that is, not Harding, moved forward unopposed, the
arena lights glinting off his skates. The spectral D treated him as if he had
bubonic plague as no-one wanted to go near him. They stopped short of shouting “Bring
out your dead”, though. Suddenly Harewood, who had had all the time in the
world to pick his spot, unleashed an unstoppable purple wrist shot and sent the
puck like an angry hornet whizzing past a horrified Marr. If he had possessed
an advanced sense of spatial awareness, the helpless and hapless Caledonian
netman would have known immediately that it was a goal. If he hadn’t, the Krakatoa-esque
explosion of the crowd may have given him a hint of what had happened behind
him i.e. his net was bulging, the referee’s flat hand was out and pointing
netwardsly and the goal judge had illuminated his red light like a lady of the
night seeking business during a slack moment. Reflecting on the moments before this
occurrence of monumental ghastliness for him, the wretched netman must have
wondered why his D had turned into an inept bunch of dithering dummkopfs in
front of him (or rather not in front of him). 2-1 Bison. By the way do you ever
wonder if there is someone in this world called Hayley Barewood? The Reverend Spooner, inventor of the spoonerism,
would have. (Who? You’d better Google him - there he is below).
The Phantoms
pushed forward in search of a second equalising goal, but, as we entered the
last minute, the poltergeists from Peterborough couldn’t find a way past a
stellarly performing Alex “Mittens” Mettam in the Bison net – 38 shots, 37
saves. The East Anglian apparitions were entering the last chance saloon.
Goaltender Marr expected to be pulled at any moment and kept looking at his
bench for a signal. But that signal never came and on 59:08 Bison sealed it
with another wrist shot finish of Ooo Matron quality, this time from Dangling
Dick Bordowski, as I shall relate.
Sean Norris to
Coach Tait to Bordo. Into the Phantoms’ defensive zone charged the Czech chap. It
was at that point that goaltender Marr must have shared a sentiment with Eric
Carmen. Eh? Back in 1975 Carmen, formerly of the Rasperries, recorded the
famous song “All by Myself”, more memorably recorded by Celine Dion in 1996. As
Bordo bore down on goal, you could almost hear Marr singing the chorus of the
song “All by myself, don’t wanna be all by myself”. But, alas for the hapless custodian
all by himself was exactly what he was. His D had deserted him. Caught with their trousers down by the swiftness of the move and the accurate purply passing, two of them precipitated
back in a manner most hurried, but Dangling Dick had the drop on them and wasn’t
going to suddenly turn from cheetah to tortoise. The D men could pursue him only
with the speed and grace of incontinent kangaroos and had no hope of catching him.
Indeed no, Matron. Dangling Dick became a blur as he hammered forward at
breakneck speed before unleashing a pin pointedly accurate wrist shot, which threatened to fly
all the way to the Czech Republic, but was stopped by the stringbag. Out came
Referee Jarvie’s flat hand thrusting forward in a netwardsly pointing direction.
A dashed spiffing score as far as Bison were concerned and a moment of hauntingly
disastrous beastliness for the Phantoms. Had a party of fish fryers on a works outing been
present this was the time to throw their battered cods into
the air in celebration. But they mustn’t have been as I saw no airborne culinary delights fitting that description. Never mind. It was 3-1 Bison with less than a minute to play.
The Phantoms were reeling like a punch drunk boxer who had just consumed a yard
of brandy and then been hit on the head with a baseball bat. At 1-2 to the bad
with a minute or more left and the possibility of pulling the goaltender for a
last hurrah 6 on 5, they were in with a shout, but now their hopes of winning
the game were dead, stone dead, as dead as a do-do, dead in the water and as
dead as a drowned drongo. The Phantoms’ spirits slid helplessly into the cess
pit of disappointment full of bubbling effluent. It was not going to be their
night. The buzzer sounded on 0:00 and it was all over.
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