Archive for January, 2011

To Kill the Ref or My Fat Goalie

January 28, 2011

It is my conclusion after playing and coaching ice hockey for many years, that there is a distinct lack of respect for the game by most referees who opt to make money on the side to pay off credit cards, buy a horse, keep from going into debt or only work as a referee and mostly sponge off of a girlfriend, wife or parents. Lack of icing calls, non-calls or waiving off clear goals because they were too lazy to get into position to see the play are just a few of the things that do not sit well with me regarding the on ice policing that takes place in both men’s league and youth hockey. That is not to say that there are not exceptions because I have run across some very good referees too. 

            Inevitably in these times of fat laden, processed garbage that most of us eat and feed our children as they virtually participate in sports, conduct wars and kill aliens, I had one particular obese and unathletic child on a youth team I coached that I will always remember.  You might ask yourself the question now what poor refereeing, fat foods, fat children and ice hockey have to do with each other based on my first two paragraphs and so I shall tell you.

            Back in my younger adult days when I was more outspoken and unforgiving in my prejudices and conclusions about things and people, I ran a summer hockey camp for children age seven to fourteen.  I actually loved the camp.  I was the ringmaster for a Lord of the Flies hockey camp where I instilled a Darwinistic point of view towards the sport.  It irked me that many parents approached summer camp as baby sitting and time occupation rather than a chance for young players to truly improve and contribute to their teams come fall.  My barometer of success was if I could see a player come in early June and leave in mid-August and I could detect an improvement in decision making, receiving a pass, making a pass, shot selection, stick handling, edge control and foot speed.  Occasionally I would have one or two that did not improve very much if at all and then I always gave it thought.  Did I fail them in some way by not focusing on what they needed?  Did they not try for some reason or were they just devoid of talent for the game.

           One particular summer, I had the fortune/misfortune of having within the camp two brothers who were identical twins.  They were thin and wiry and wore yarmulkes because they were orthodox Jewish.  I had in the past coached their older brother who was quiet and obedient.  The younger twins were Thing one and Thing two.  They would tag team kids they didn’t like in the group and play practical jokes all the time.  Once when I threw them off the ice for trying to do a Hanson Brothers imitation in a scrimmage, they took my street shoes and hid them.  I had to go barefoot the rest of the day and never did find my shoes.  Both boys vehemently denied having anything to do with shoes and I couldn’t prove that they did.  They were vindictive, mischievous but very athletic and valuable to have.  One loved playing goalie and the other loved playing defence.  If the goalie brother made a save, the defenceman brother would mix it up with any opposing team’s player who got anywhere near his brother and goalie.

            On a rain day when we could not go out in the field after taking the ice, I had the boys put on their helmets and gloves and challenge one another to a one on one boxing match.  I put the twins against each other and they refused to fight one another.  They swore at me and declined with folded arms.  They wanted to fight smaller or bigger kids and generally kids they detested.  The twins were fast and fearless and nobody really wanted a piece of either of them and so I thought turning them on each other would be a good idea.  The twins were opposed.  While I was instructing two other campers on the rules of locker boxing such as no headlocks or kicking, someone had grabbed hold of my shorts from behind and ripped them down to my ankles.  The elastic on my underwear was a bit weak and dropped to my ankles with the shorts. My fifteen year old female junior counselor got a full frontal.  I was so upset that I grabbed the closest camper next to me who was a fat child named Nat.  I picked up Nat with one arm and ripped his shorts off leaving him standing and crying in a pair of smiley face boxers.  When he got his breath, he told me it was the twins.  The twins knew they were in trouble and so they just ran home without any thought to what was going to happen to their equipment or what I was going to tell their Guatemalan au pair that was responsible for collecting them.  I had a talk eventually with their mother and got the impression that she didn’t believe that her two darlings were capable of such a thing.  Times have changed since I was a lad.

            Later that fall, I coached a pee wee team and had Nat and the twins on my team.  We were a solid .500 team and most parents thought that being at sea level was a winning season given the talent we had.  I had a game against a formidable powerhouse organization that was walking through their season without much of a fight.  Come game time my number one goalie called in sick leaving me with Thing two only on defence.  I had no choice but to use my back up goalie Nat.

            To Nat’s credit, he tried hard and went to clinics and his parents spent a young fortune on matching equipment to our organization’s colours.  Nat was a roly-poly child with curly hair and freckles who was always drinking a soft drink with a high sugar snack.  He had the physique of a middle aged man going through a stress test after a heart scare.  Nat was slow and not athletic but I needed a back up and Nat was happy to have the job.  The job description was to be ready to jump into a game if a satellite landed on goalie number one or if he becomes ill and so I was faced with having to play Nat against the top team in our division. A win meant going to the playoffs and a loss meant we get ready for spring league.  I told Nat to stretch out away from the bench as I talked to the team before the game.  I gave them a pep talk and was quite honest, maybe too much so for twelve year old boys.

            “Boys…  Thing one is sick.  We gotta put in Nat.  I want you to play as if you had an empty net behind you.  Pretend there is no goalie and Nat will have a fighting chance.”

            During the warm ups a referee that hated me and I had a huge dislike for, took to the ice.  This referee was one of the dirtiest players in men’s league when he wasn’t refereeing.  He got the moniker, The Dentist because he was forever getting the blade of his stick up in people’s faces.  He had hooked me once behind the net around the neck and left me looking like Clint Eastwood in Hang em High.  When the referee blew the whistle, I took off my glove to see if he drew blood.  As he skated to the box, he said a few words to me.

            “I hardly touched you, you fucking pussy.”

            I thought to myself quickly that I had possession of the puck.  I was hooked up high and was cut across the throat and then called a pussy.  I wanted a piece of him.  I never got my chance to line him up that game or in other games.  It might have just turned out that we were on separate ends of the ice or different shifts but I was looking to have this guy come fly around someone so I could attempt an open ice hit or a hip check.  It never came for me.

            During the course of the youth game that I was coaching and my adversary was refereeing, my team had three five on three situations against us and Nat was playing out of his mind.  For almost the entire game, we were behind by a score of 1-0.  We tied the game when time expired on a penalty and one of our players got a pass at centre ice and walked in alone on the other team’s goalie.  With about thirty seconds to go in the game, the opposing team’s coach was livid that they had beaten us in running time just a few weeks earlier and that he was faced with a less than perfect season by ending the game in a tie.  11-0-1 is not as good as 12-0 and so he screamed for his players to crash the net.  Nat had made a great save as he was falling and Thing Two tied up the stick of the opposing team’s player who had an empty net.  Nat scrambled on his stomach and froze the puck.  The whistle sounded for what I thought was a face off with less than ten seconds to go and the referee, The Dentist, my adversary, my nemesis, motioned for a penalty shot. In a tie game with less than ten seconds to go a referee should never call for a penalty shot unless someone is killed during play.  I usually watered down my language in front of the boys but at that moment, I believed they needed to hear just how unjust I felt the call was.

            “You are a fucking dirty hack of a player and less than a piece of shit as a ref…  What kind of a fucking asshole calls for a penalty shot in a tie game with a few seconds on the clock?  Make sure that when they score that you give yourself the assist for this one, you fucking cock.”

            The ref then gave me a minor penalty and ordered me to put my goalie in the net.  I took a deep breath and calmly called a time out.  I looked at Nat who had played the game of his life and was faced with possibly losing in a game that should have been a draw.  I then called Thing two over.

            “I want you to get in the net instead of Nat”

            “What?  I’m not the goalie!”

            “Nat played his fat ass off today and deserves a win or a tie, not a loss.  I won’t let Nat face their shooter on the penalty shot.  I want you to take off when the skater starts skating towards you.  Don’t worry about where the shot is.  I don’t want you to think about the puck.  I want you to skate up and smack the shooter as hard as you can.  If they score fuck it, the ref is trying to give them game anyway.”

            Thing Two got in the net and banged the posts with his forward stick the way he saw his brother do many times.  He got into a goalie’s stance and waited for the ref to blow the whistle.  The ref skated over to the bench and demanded that I put the goalie in the net.  I refused.  When I asked to see the rule on whether a forward could play the goalie position on a penalty shot, the ref did not have a rule book and so he had no choice but to let me have the forward in the net.  The skater took off in a straight line from centre ice with the puck.  Thing Two took off just as the skater reached the top of the circle.  He skated like a bull charging a bull fighter.  The skater let the puck go just as Thing Two clothes lined the skater in throat with his forearm and dropped him.  The puck trickled slowly on the chopped up ice and died just over the goal line for a goal.  My parents hated me, the opposing team’s parents hated me and the referee laughed.  I promised him I would get him on the ice one day.  In the locker room my players could have cared less about the loss.  They were all talking about how Thing Two sent the snot flying around the helmet of the kid on the penalty shot.  For them and me, it was the craziest move we had ever seen.  Parents questioned me and I told them that I did not want Nat to feel badly about a loss after saving close to forty shots.  As far as I was concerned, Nat got the tie.

            It was in the summer when The Dentist took the ice on a team against me in a men’s league game.  He had done all he could to not come into the zone on my side nor camp out near the net near where I was playing defence.  Again it looked as if I wasn’t going to be able to line him up when good fortune came for me and misfortune for him.  The speedy dentist zoomed up the boards and got in front our bench when my son came from nowhere, landed a solid hit on him and then dumped him head first into the clams that accumulated around the feet of the players on my team.  He was slow to get up as cleaned cold saliva from his cheek.  I stood on the ice smiling without saying a word.  Nothing needed to be said.  As my son was being escorted to the penalty box he calmly said with a smile loud enough for The Dentist to hear: you should give that fucking guy a penalty shot.

All-star break is here.  Vancouver and Philadelphia look like the picks for the Stanley Cup finals.  Who will crash and who will emerge in the second half of the season?

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Drunk Driving the Dog

January 13, 2011

            Horatio Kiss made a pile of money or as the saying goes, hand over fist, getting drunks to beat the drunken driving laws in the state of Michigan.  Horatio was an attractive man with a televangelist’s smile, with perfect hair and good speaking voice.  Business got so good that Horatio began to do commercials on local television in Detroit.  His commercials began with kissing lips and a red imprint of lips across his own forehead that he would wipe off with a handkerchief.

            “Drunk driving is not a laughing matter; you need the professionals at Horatio Kiss and Associates to help you wipe away that DUI.”

            Horatio would then tuck the handkerchief into his breast pocket and point at the camera and exclaim, “Get the facts, get the help you need.  At Horatio Kiss and Associates we have handled every type of DUI charge imaginable.  We can get you that dismissal, we can get you that re-instatement today… Begin to wipe away that DUI now.”

            Peter Francis Geraci had been the most recognized commercial attorney in Michigan with all the bankruptcies and foreclosures. All those broke and evicted people then needed another attorney when they turned to alcohol to ease the pain when they operated vehicles while intoxicated.  Horatio became their man.

            It was no joke; Horatio was very good at getting drunks off the hook.  Many people were nailed dead to rights by the Michigan State Police or in the city of Detroit or surrounding municipalities.  An officer would often come into court and explain why he stopped a potentially drunk vehicle operator and then Horatio would go to work on that officer.

            “Officer Whipple…  Have you ever changed a station on your radio in the car?”

            “Yes.”

            “Have you ever drank or eaten something while operating a vehicle?”

            “Yes.”

            “Have you ever spoken on a phone or answered a radio call in your squad car while it was moving, while operating it?”

            “Yes.”

            “Have you ever swerved while doing this?”

            “I’m not certain.”

            “So you could have swerved but you are unaware of ever doing it while doing everyday things that everyone does without taking a drop of alcohol.  Is that correct, officer?”

            “It is possible I suppose…”

            “Are you a diabetic, Officer Whipple?”

            “No sir…”      

            “Were you aware that the defendant is a diabetic and that he was on the phone with Walgreen’s placing an order for insulin when you stopped him for erratic driving which was nothing more than driving on the lane marker but not crossing it.  This man was about to go into shock and yet you would hear none of it.  Am I correct, officer?”

            “He refused a sobriety test and in my experience this is usually guilt by denial.  We never discussed diabetes.”

            “The defendant was not allowed to discuss diabetes, officer…”

            And so on.  Horatio understood that most obese people needed insulin and since most people were obese, he could use that argument.  Horatio pulled many rabbits out of hats to help clearly drunk motorists beat the rap.  Aside from diabetes, Horatio used insomnia, head injuries, poor vision that had been since corrected, contractions, menstrual cramping, vertigo due to ear wax blockage, recent deaths in the family, divorce, loss of jobs, homes and even once a drop in stocks.  Horatio was good and everyone knew it.  Horatio could stuff an elephant through the eye of a needle and many knew he was capable of explaining why it was necessary and plausible.  Horatio was the Houdini of DUI defense.

            Horatio had a brother by the name of Helmut who was Horatio’s twin brother.  Helmut was not a fraternal twin and unless people were told, they would never guess that Horatio and Helmut were even brothers.  Helmut was tall, obese, loud and drunk most of the time.  He went to strip clubs and never missed a Detroit Red Wings home game.  Helmet had a job dropping off medical supplies between nursing homes in Ann Arbor and Oakland County in the town of Wixom.  People who knew Helmut called him The Pontiac Trailer Trash but not to his face.  Helmet lived in a trailer and drove a 1977 AMC Hornet that had belonged to their grandparents who had willed it to Helmut before they died.  A coat hanger held the muffler to the car and he drove with the windows open because exhaust fumes would enter through the rotten floor boards.  All Helmut could get on radio was AM stations and so Helmet listened to a Detroit sports talk station on AM  radio and even got a five minute call in show which he was not paid for where he would rant or rave about the Red Wings.  The only reason Helmut was given the show was because he was the brother of the famous Horatio Kiss and because Helmut showed up to every Red Wings home game with his English Bulldog who he named, Delvecchio after a former ice hockey hall of fame player by the name of Alex Delvecchio who played for the Red Wings during the days of the Original Six.

  Helmut and Delvecchio would walk around Joe Louis Arena before games and Delvecchio wore a red sweater with the Red Wing logo on it and the name Delvecchio.  Delvecchio the dog also wore a custom fit white CCM helmet with Red Wing logos on both sides.  Helmet would yell like a drunken frat boy and high five anyone and everyone who would acknowledge him and his dog.  Helmet would then valet park his AMC Hornet with the windows cracked and the motor running so that his dog would not die of carbon monoxide or freeze while he went into Joe Louis Arena to watch a game.

            It was on New Year’s Eve that the Detroit Red Wings were taking on the New York Islanders.  For those in the know, the lowly Islanders stood a slim chance of ever stealing a win from the mighty Red Wings especially at home and on the last night of the year.

            Helmut left his home early to parade Delvecchio around downtown Detroit.  They walked by Campus Martius where Detroiters were skating at the outdoor ice rink, he walked up and down the streets in Greektown and then took Delvecchio on the People Mover at the Cadillac Center, past Greektown, The Renaissance Center, the financial district and then on to Joe Louis Arena.  Patrons of the people mover all wanted to pet the panting, slobbering Delvecchio with his cute sweater and helmet on his head.  Japanese tourists usually took family pictures with Helmut and the dog and then tipped him.  Helmut didn’t mind.

            Horatio was more of a basketball fan than a hockey fan and so Horatio rarely made it to The Joe.  It just so happened that a wealthy client who had a son that got arrested with a fictitious license, got into a car accident while intoxicated.  It was a trifecta for the arresting officer: suspended license, fake identification and an accident while intoxicated.  The son of the wealthy real estate speculator racked up fines that exceeded $50,000.00 and a potential felony for falsifying his identity.  The wealthy real estate man was a huge hockey fan and wanted to discuss Horatio’s plan of action between periods at the hockey game.  They were fantastic seats, center ice about ten rows back.

            It was at the end of the game when Horatio fought his way to a men’s bathroom on the way out of the arena that he recognized a distinct voice.  It was the voice of his twin picking a fight with some fans from Long Island in New York.

            “Fuck the Rangers, fuck the Devils, fuck Mike Bossy, fuck Long Island, fuck Long Island Ice Tea, fuck your stupid accents and the fucking Islanders…  This is what I think of your fucking Islanders…”

            Helmut pulled out his penis and began urinating in the sink in full view of every man waiting in line to relieve themselves before they burst.  Other Detroit fans cheered in the bathroom as Helmut clasped his hands over his head as if he had won a prize fight.  Horatio grabbed his brother and escorted him towards his car, lecturing him all the way.  Horatio collected Delvecchio from the overheating AMC and paid to have the car stored overnight. 

            “Bro, you don’t understand cause you’re not a fan.  We got Pavel out, Cleary, Modano and now Stewart and they just got fucking lucky.  I don’t like nobody coming into my home and talking smack.  It’s smack bro, that’s all.  I’m just trying to have a good time and enjoy a game and welcome in the baby new year, that’s all.  Delvecchio and me are gonna stop by a few places to have a nip and then we’ll be on our way,” said a slurring Helmut.

            Delvecchio was panting profusely while he sat on Helmut’s lap.  Drool was getting all over the dashboard of Horatio’s Escalade which had just been detailed.  Horatio lost his cool.

            “I am tired of saving your ass every time you do something stupid.  Bringing the dog to games, getting wasted, pissing in sinks in a public building…  I can’t save you from yourself, Helmy.  When are you going to grow up?”

            The lecture made Helmut sad.  He began to cry.  The immense amount alcohol which was consumed over the course of eight hours brought about an impetuous decision to open the door of the SUV which was moving at seventy five miles an hour on interstate 75.  Horatio slammed on the breaks to keep his brother from falling out of the moving vehicle.  Helmut began to walk alongside the interstate carrying his sixty pound bulldog in a sweater and hockey helmet as snow began to fall.  Horatio pleaded with his brother to get back in the truck but Helmet ignored him.  Helmet began to stick out his thumb in hopes of getting a ride from a passing vehicle.  After about a quarter mile, an Officer Haynes pulled his state issued Crown Victoria over to the side to try and understand what was happening between two men and a dog.  The night grew ugly for the trio.  Officer Haynes had actually been in court with Horatio several times and lost.  It was his good fortune or possibly karma that brought them all together at nearly the strike of midnight on New Year’s Eve.

  On the front page of the Detroit Free Press was a picture taken from the squad car camera of Horatio, Helmut and Delvecchio looking like deer in the headlights.  The headline was as follows:

            DUI CRUSADER NABBED DRUNK DRIVING WITH BROTHER AND DOG

            Detroit- Horatio Kiss was found walking with his brother, Helmet Kiss and his dog Delvecchio along interstate 75 near exit 55: Holbrook/Caniff Avenue exit after attending a Detroit Red Wings game earlier in the evening.  Mr. Horatio Kiss contends that he was attempting to get his brother Helmut Kiss and his dog into his vehicle when they were spotted by Michigan State Police walking northbound on the shoulder of Interstate 75 at 11:52 pm on December 31st.  Mr. Helmut Kiss struck the officer who was attempting to handcuff him, broke a window to the squad car and ran off of the freeway.  Mr. Horatio Kiss then followed his brother in a white Cadillac Escalade.  The Kiss Brothers and the dog were apprehended without further incident in Hamtramck.  Bond hearing is scheduled Monday January 3, 2011.  Mr. Horatio Kiss will be representing himself and his brother.  No further details are known about the English bulldog named Delvecchio.

Dom the Dago II: Viagra Falls

January 10, 2011

During a men’s league game during the summer a few years back, everyone on the team had noticed a tall attractive woman in a pair of Daisy Duke Shorts and a tight shirt that showed off her supple and firm breasts.  She had muscular legs and had a youthful appearance over all.  Every man in the arena, who was participating in the game, had to have taken notice of the attractive woman who scaled the stairs to the top level of the stands where the air temperature is nearly room temperature. 

           The woman sat on our side of the Mason-Dixon Line which would be center ice and waved over towards our bench.  We all looked at one another to see who it was that had such a pretty wife or girlfriend.  The oldest among us took a squirt of water while waiting to change with the left winger and flipped his head in the air and lifted the water bottle as if he were proposing a toast.  None of were surprised that Dom the Dago was with the woman who was young enough to possibly be his daughter.  Guys made cracks and jokes that showed more than anything, their jealousy, disdain and perplexity over the situation which was that a virile senior citizen was not only able to keep up with much younger men on the ice, he could match them to in the rack.

            Dom had driven around the city on his motorcycle one day and decided to stop at a corner tavern to get a beer.  I could picture a muscular older man, getting off of his Harley-Davidson while the Cheryl Crow look-a-like watched him saunter up to the bar.  They probably peeled the labels off of their Buds as they got to know one another.  It was after another game that I met this woman who would have been possibly a few too many years too young for me but wouldn’t have looked like she was my daughter.  For Dom, it looked like he was dating his daughter’s friends.  Dom didn’t mind nor did Cheryl Crow.

            Her name is not Cheryl Crow but now it has become such since I’m not good with names.  I give people nicknames based on who someone may resemble.  For example there is a guy I play pick up hockey with who has a droopy face and so I call him the bloodhound or a two young brothers who have a distinct inability to pass at the correct time or force horrible angled shots.  I call the two brothers the Columbine Brothers because they only talk to each other, play on a line with each other and even shower together as they whisper to one another and giggle together over secrets while naked and showering.  If they were not brothers, they would have been written off as homosexuals.  Instead they are just weird and not able to neither think ahead as intelligent hockey players nor play the game without one another.  When people take offense to me referring to them as The Columbine Brothers, I then use the back up name: The Silent Bobs.

            And so this attractive young lady, shapely with a pretty smile, had decided that Dom was a good fit for her life.  What Cheryl learned about Dom was that he had been in the military; he played ice hockey and rode a motorcycle.  Dom told her that he was not married (actually was married to a Benny Hill look-a-like.  As unfair as it might be, I call Dom’s wife, Benny Hill) and lives with his brother Arnie in a small home.  Arnie was a sworn bachelor who also played hockey with us too that was a mail carrier by day and a hockey enthusiast by night.  Arnie had a three bedroom house.  One bedroom was for actual sleeping for Arnie, the second was a hockey shrine of things he purchased such as autographed sticks and pucks and jerseys that were never worn from every team that ever existed in the NHL, AHL, IHL, ECHL and all Olympic teams and so on.  Whenever Arnie played pick up hockey, he wore a whole color coordinated out fit of socks, pant shell, gloves and matching helmet to go with whatever team jersey he was wearing.  Since he was a tenth generation Swede or something like that, he would usually wear a blue Jofa helmet, with blue Jofa gloves, yellow socks with blue stripes, a blue pant shell and a Forsberg Swede Jersey in either Yellow or Blue.  Arnie could have been addicted to booze or pills but instead it was all things hockey.  With no kids or a wife to stop him, Arnie purchased anything that caught his eye.  It was like the hall of fame in his second bedroom.  The third bedroom became the make believe bedroom belonging to Dom.

            Dom brought Cheryl and a bullpen of other women to Arnie’s house so they could see where two make believe brothers lived.  Dom did a good job actually.  He had pictures of himself on a dresser and the dresser was actually filled with socks and underwear.  The closet had clothes that belonged to him also and so none of the skeptics suspected anything even though Dom had a tan line where a wedding ring usually was placed on his ring finger on his left hand.  Women occasionally asked why it was that he had a tan line on that finger and Dom would emotionally say that he was only engaged once to a childhood sweetheart that died in a plane crash, car crash, elevator crash, porch crash, boat crash or what have you and then they would change the subject so as to not ruin the night.  Dom was a good liar and Arnie went along with it so that he could live vicariously through his much better looking hockey buddy.  When past girlfriends would come to the house to confront Dom for breaking things off, Arnie would be the one that would have to say that he took off on his motorcycle and couldn’t be found.

            “Yeah sweetie, Dom was very upset about something and said he needed to get away to think about stuff that was on his mind.  Do you know what’s going on with him?  He’s only my brother, he don’t tell me much…”

            After that scripted explanation, the former loves faded off over time.  Arnie was one hell of a wing man for Dom and he knew it and appreciated Arnie for making such lies completely plausible.

            Arnie left on his first European vacation and Dom was given a full run of the house while Arnie was absent.  For a few days, Cheryl stayed with Dom in his make believe house and they existed as an honest to goodness couple for a few days.  Dom found out quickly that Cheryl wanted to make love anywhere from three to six times a day.  Dom confided in a group of us at the bar after a league game that Cheryl had an appetite that could not be fulfilled easily.  In fact it was Cheryl who told Dom that maybe she needed a younger model that could keep up with her sexually.  The comment angered Dom since he was hitting it two or three times a day with her even during menstrual cycles (they had special brown towels or had shower sex that looked like a scene out of Psycho).  One of the guys happened to have a bottle of Viagra with him and gave Dom two pills and explained to him that taking a whole pill would not be necessary.  It was maximum dosage and the guy who bought the pills asked for maximum dosage so that he could cut them in half and save some money since the pills cost about $10.00 a piece.  Dom is not a patient man.

            While Dom was at a baseball game with Cheryl Crow, he popped half a pill and after an hour, he felt no different so he popped the other half of the pill.  After an hour later, Dom felt nothing except anger since he was telling Cheryl that he was going to be Superman later that night.  Before getting on the motorcycle and driving back to Arnie’s house to consummate the evening, Dom popped an entire second pill.  It wasn’t long after taking the second pill that Dom could feel his pulse in his eyes and noticed that the veins in his arms had popped up like he had been lifting weights.  He could feel an erecting through his jeans that hurt and throbbed.  As soon as they walked into the living room, Dom literally ripped the clothes off of Cheryl and did it on the hardwood floor, the couch, the dining room table, kitchen counter, hood of the car in the driveway and then the bed.  Dom faked six orgasms by spitting on her in the dark and claiming that although he could continue to get hard; his ability to replenish sperm could not keep up with his ability to bring about an erection.

            Dom told all of us some time later that he commenced with love making a little after ten in the evening and stopped attacking Cheryl at about six in the morning after she begged him to stop because she was sore and exhausted.  The next day Dom drove Cheryl home in Arnie’s car since Cheryl claimed it was too uncomfortable to sit on a motorcycle.  She was amazed by the fact that Dom was able to get and stay hard all night.  Dom was rough and trashed talked the entire time.  He asked rhetorical questions.

            “Who’s told old, huh?  Who can’t keep up with you?  Who were talking about?  Have you had enough?  Well I haven’t.  Daddy wants to make love all night and we’re going to.  I’m going to break my old record of six times in a night that I set when I was nineteen.  Back then though I would come way too fast.  I think a half hour or forty five minutes each should be about right…  Now who’s is this?”  Dom asked.

            “It’s yours,” Cheryl would say submissively.

            “I want to hear you yell it!” Said Dom.

            “IT’S YOUR PUSSY.  IT’S YOURS!”

            “Great…  Now who’s too old?  Is Dom too old?”

            “NO…  NO, DOM ISN’T TOO OLD!”

            Dom said that Cheryl fell asleep and he lay on his back with a sore penis that was still erect while he could hear his pulse in his ears and feel it in his eyes.  The next day Dom had the worst headache of his life and was just thankful that he didn’t die of a stroke.  Cheryl never teased Dom that he was too old again and he is thankful for that.

            The NHL season is half over and if the season were to conclude today Chicago would not be in the playoffs.  What will be the key for them to get back into contention before it is too late.  Defense?  Offense? Goaltending? Viagra?