Monday, August 27, 2018

HOW WOMEN'S HOCKEY SAVED THE WORLD* (*and defeated Donald Trump, but not necessarily in that order)

In a time not so long, long ago, in a not so far, far away place, a handsome American business
savant was saddled with being a billionaire.  Distracted by his riches, and a magic tube with
moving pictures that his minions carried and held before him, he was tricked into sponsoring a
women’s hockey game.

A hockey game?  Really?  There's no hockey in fairy tales . . .

The great prince of industry - let's call him Mr. T to protect his privacy - was told he was
sponsoring a beauty pageant.  He assumed he might kiss the beautiful and talented winner as he
liked to do whether welcomed or not.

Mr. T requested, using dump trucks filled with money, that the pageant be called Mr. T’s Most
Amazing, Miss Teen Hockey and T University [entire Universe!!!] Scholarship Pageant.  The greatest
pageant the universe had ever seen!  Mr. T guaranteed it.

Unbeknownst to Mr. T, the pageant was a fundraiser supporting women in sports.  The quite
large donation was gladly accepted.

Who could pull off such a switcheroo?  The trickster was a legendary, French-Canadian hockey
playing nun.   Her name was, of course, Sister Gordiosa Howe.  Yes, a distant cousin of the Red
Wing great, Gordie Howe.  She was also publisher of the underground Ms. Ice Hockey of North America Liberation Front magazine.  Some called her the Joan of Arc of hockey.


In Calgary, Sister G once rode into the Saddledome stadium in full hockey gear (hockey stick held
as a spear) while on a white horse.  The horse stayed on the bench until the third period when
nature called. The Zamboni made an early entrance to clean things up.  Horses are not known to
skate well either.


It was Sister G's idea for this modern beauty pageant.  The puckish and wily nun, convinced the
Aryan looking, really, really rich reality star into being the promoter.  She did this because she
spoke to him in French with a Russian interpreter. He did not understand a word of it, yet he
smiled the entire time.   His yellow hair was perfect.


The Russian language beguiled Mr. T and made him do things he would not ordinarily do.  It made
this billionaire dream of being drunk on expensive imported vodka and snuggling with a bare-chested
Russian dictator while they watched former U.S. allies on the Baltic Sea being invaded by soldiers
from the east.  The air was filled with international sexual tension that could not be stopped by
N.A.T.O. or Republicans in Congress.


Bad things happened.  But, good things happened before the bad things did.  Then things
improved, but only for a short time.  Then came the ultimate victory on ice.  Yes, the big red,
Soviet hockey machine was crushed.  Oops, different story.


This beauty contest was uniquely cool.  There was no bathing suit competition.  Rather than donning
bikinis, the teens played a hockey game in pink helmets and wore either pink black or pink white
sweaters (as jerseys are called in Canada).  Every young woman wore full hockey pads and full gear.
 Skates were sharp and ready for the ice.


Instead of judging body beauty with posing and prancing while mostly unclad, this all-teen sporting
contest judged contestants on three things.
1) Competitive spirit.

2) The largest bruise received in a game-changing effort during the game.

3) Hockey sense (this is equivalent to a three-dimensional, moving I.Q. test requiring vector
analysis.  Yes, physics).


The contest was once called Miss Teen Hockeytown.  [A certain northern pizza magnate [owner of
Little Caesar’s] made them change the name as he owned the trademark even in a parallel, fairy tale
universe.  The location of this ice pageant was the legendary Joe Louis Arena in downtown Detroit.
[That's Joe's fist, not the arena]



You know, that little French city on the river across from the hallowed, promised land of Canada?

A series of intentional misprints by crafty union members in Ontario led to this name: Ms. Teen
Hockeytownship Ice Tourney.  (Hockey fans called it the Ms. Teen Hockey game)

Spoiler alert: Ms. Teen Hockey won the contest by receiving the largest and narlyest bruise on her
thigh.  This hematoma was 3 inches above her kneecap when she took a slap shot full on while she
played defense, wearing number 5.  Yes, Nicklas Lidstrom’s old number.  It’s the number her brother wears.  And, her Dad.   Her mother declined to keep the family tradition and wears another number.

Even in hockey fairy tales, reality (believability) enters.  Yes, we know, back then the Carolina
Hurricanes were the Hartford Whalers.  The Detroit Red Wings wore that feather-winged automobile
wheel that still inspires the faithful.  All Canadian teams wore what they always wore except when
they didn’t exist.  Yes, the Habs and the Leafs always existed even during pre-historic times
though I can’t remember who has more Stanley Cup wins.   😊😊

Why a bruise? Her hockey pants were a tad too short and her knees were bent. You see, there was a
small gap between her shin pads and her breezers.  She blocked a 60 m.p.h. shot with her
unprotected thigh flesh.

The bruise was soon black, blue and had a hint of maroon.  Like the undecayed flesh of a
long-forgotten saint, the discolored skin smelled faintly of toasted macaroons.  Just a hint, mind
you (and this was while the rest of her body reeked of bacteria-infused hockey equipment left to
molder in the trunk of an old 1974 black Thunderbird between games.

Back to the bad thing that happened: Mr. T’s go-to move was a sneaky, quick grab at Ms. Teen
Hockey’s you know where. This grab, interrupted, came as the teen was leaving the bench to go to
the locker room before the awards ceremony.  Ms. Teen Hockey was still in her skates and hockey
gear, with a hockey stick in hand.

Mr. T leaned in for a kiss and extended his hand.  In return he was treated to some fancy hockey
stick work to his nether parts.  Just a love tap in the world of hockey.  The wooden stick blade
covered in pink tape met designer wool trousers. Ouch.

Ms. Teen Hockey could have been called for spearing, but the refs were still on the ice and the
game was over.  Mr. T was unable or unwilling to present the trophy - a bronzed Jill (think of a
Jock and strap but for girls) set atop four game used pucks, all wrapped together with black hockey
tape.  Her beauty crown: A pink hat topped with an embossed Cheshire cat.  Meow.

That winner’s trophy and pink winner’s hat is not to be found anywhere. No, not even in the Hockey
Hall of Fame.

The attempted groping and quick defense by a trained hockey playing teen was not captured on
camera.  The video is not right here:  http:Whereisit?.com  No, it’s not on http:
FakeRussianTrumplestiltskinNewsTeets.com

Even so, the real and unreal world was saved by young women playing hockey.  Don’t tell anyone, but Ms. Teen Hockey had a pink hijab under her helmet and she whispered something to Mr. T in Spanish at the time of impact.

Mr. T continued to live on an island in the east where an eagle-eyed French woman with a gigantic
torch [imagine her holding a hockey stick aloft with two hands]


kept watch over this broken and humiliated man; a guy so defeated that he was never to run for elected office or watch another women’s sporting event.

So, in this universe, a place, far, far away from fiction, there is a young woman who still dreams
of playing professional hockey; a world where skill and talent bests icy warfare, hits to the head
(wooing Russian dictators) and other violent and unnecessary contact.
.    .    .
Ms. Teen Hockey before the bruise:

 


The original, amazing, unaltered photo titled "Boom!"