Call it mutiny. Call it Revolution 10.0. The fact is, this ship has a new captain and his name is Lee. By setting a new mark of 10 wins and no losses in one night, throwing 4 hangers in the process, Lee has taken the wheel. With Scrappy as his capable shipmate, those previously at the helm were displaced and abused on the night. “The Insurgents” laid waste to all that came before them, their deep pucks carving up the board like sharp swords through enemy sails. The magnitude of the night’s proceedings even surpassed the bold predictions made before the night began.The words of the prophetic note, folded like a treasure map in the shipmate’s back pocket, read:
SHOOTING AN ELEPHANT I had already decided the night should play out like Orwell’s Shooting an Elephant. The one where the British police officer stationed in Burma recognizes the conflict between his own intellectual sympathies with the oppressed and his official role as an enforcer and enabler of the self-same oppression. The internal conflict is made physical when he follows an elephant into the woods, finding it at rest after a rampage through a nearby town. Against strict laws forbidding it and against his own wishes, he is persuaded by the native mob to kill the elephant. Orwell’s story illustrates the inherent problem with hegemony: “When man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys”. With this plot printed and folded in my back pocket, the symbol of tyranny in my own story arrived. We rolled out, like complicit British officers, down the path to the arena. There, with the paper unfolded on the table, I set about to follow the plot. The plot proceeded without a twist. I found only victory in my challenges, the final one being direct victory over my oppressor. Feeling as if my efforts had at least restored some balance, I rode off under the pre-midnight curtain of light rain. I see in this night the living proof that prescience sleeps in the determined soul and wakes with purpose under the hand of the oppressor. With the contents of my soul on the table, the value of my guesses have now been determined. It appears the cage you built to keep me, keeps the both of us.
The original draft of the document had also laid out the following specific goals for the evening: 1. Win every game, (thus avenging my 0-5 last visit to the Rumpus); 2. Get my 50th hanger(a must, due to upcoming 2-week vacation); 3. Get a shutout; and 4. Beat Martin in singles on the last game of the night. The shutout was the only goal not met (16-1 and 15-1 wins came close), but I’ll take consolation in becoming the fucking Don of the Kielbasa-Nostra. Records set on the evening: 10-0 (first Lee, then Shalen); 4 Hangers (Lee sets new mark); and 0-7 (Martin ties record for most losses without a win on a single night). The Insurgents are now 12-2 on the year and have an active win streak of 11 straight. Also, with his come-from-behind singles win over Scott, Lee moved back into first on the career singles table.
The first appearance of Father Jimmy James Wrecka Stow and The Leech arriving before midnight were more than just notable, but got lost in the shadow of the Insurgency.
With the prophecies fulfilled and the records broken, this night was simply magical. With a two-week TFC hiatus to follow, I could have hoped for no better parting shot. The mutiny complete, I can now enjoy the bliss of the bounty: the completion of a 4-week run resulting in 25 wins to just 3 losses. I am no fool, however. I know the fleeting nature of good fortune. I am sure the swords of the ousted guard will be well sharp upon my return. Until then, Lee and I rule these high seas.