What The Press Failed to Mention Fellow Legends, Here is a recap of the debauchery from this past weekend; a weekend that will surely live on in the annals of drunken historicism. I arrived in Kingston at 1:30 Thursday afternoon. Anxiously awaited the throngs of people who would be arriving at my house around 5pm, considering they were supposed to be leaving at 2. Recieve a phone call from Skeeter at 6pm. They are standing in my living room in Oakville, waiting for the Money Shot to have his hand stiched by Mrs. Foley. Only four hours behind schedule; impressive. Begin watching the Leaf game alone. Depressing. With two minutes left in the third, Skeeter, Treva, Rosco, and Nate show up. They bring beer. Commence 36 hours of drunkenness. Soon thereafter, Ash shows up with Ronnie, Foley, and The Money shot. Two minutes later, Ash is in tears because some asshole mentioned the name Kevin O'Flaherty. We give her a couple LLLLLLLLOADED SSSSODAS, and everything seems alright, until someone mentions the word 'Clarkson', at which point a comforting hug is required to prevent a complete breakdown. Foley sits in the corner wearing six sweaters, covered by a sleeping bag like an invalid. He cannot drink because he forgot to take his skirt off. Dinner, Marie, B*Rad, and Dan Van "I love to make out with girls beside Sean" Zant show up. We bust out the record collection; Culture Club never sounded so good. The Money Shot money shots his drink all over the floor, and his wank rag continues to hang from our living room archway to this day. Someone breaks an imported wine glass (proprieter still oblivious to this fact), wasting ounces of our finest vintage. Sully and Laura show up in Donnie's mustang. We go to the bar where we are the only people whose parents aren't cousins, and myself and Dan begin one of the most impressive bouts of fuuz ball domination known to man, annihilating B*Rad and Dinner for the duration of the weekend. I'm not sure what happened after that, but there was poutine involved, and we ended up back at my place where my living room was engulfed in smoke, which is OK by my housemates, just so long as you don't smoke cigarettes in the house. The Money Shot completed his lifelong dream, and sole purpose for coming to Canada, by sleeping in Leigha's bed; unfortunately, Leigha was in Nova Scotia at the time. Dinner looked like a million bucks in my slippers. I broke another wine glass. Woke up the next morning, bought 16 litres of Gatorade, and wasted an entire afternoon watching team Canada lose to the fucking Russians. Showed off athletic prowess between periods by tossing the football around, only dinging convicted murderer's car once; nice throw Ronnie. Left for Potsdam just after 5. While driving into Potsdam, we heard Dooner and O'Flaherty's names on the radio, which meens that they have accomplished more in their lives than we will have collectively when all is said and done. We get to the game five minutes late, but never too early to start giving it to Dooner. Thankfully, he doesn't hear what particular individuals say about his sister and girlfriend into the megaphone. Between periods, there is the traditional sprint to Club 99 where each lucky contestant sucks back two $0.99 pints in under twelve minutes, surpresses any urges to puke, and then runs back in time for the beginning of the next period. Don the bartender is looking swell. Dinner wins rookie of the year, impressing us all with his ability to inhale liquid and continue to engage in coherent conversation. In the third period, Dooner gets scored on, and the PA announcer's call is drowned out by drunken chants of DOONER! DOONER! MINUS 1! Our viewing pleasure is disrupted by a Ted Kazinsky lookalike who attempts to make jokes about Canada, but is little more than a babbling idiot. The bearded freak of Cheel Arena (a cross between the hunchback of Notre Dame and the Phantom of the Opera) begins calling for blood and death from the rafters above. He clearly did not recieve his medication. Game ends: Clarkson 2, Mercyhurst 0. We go to club 99 and drink accessive amounts of alcohol, interruped only by visits of Muldoon himself (Sully- "Dooner, lets go for a butt"), and John and Sheila. Oh ya! We were then inducted into the Clarkson hall of fame, as the original photograph of the helmet heads (myself, Nate, Ronnie, Skeeter, Foley, Flats) is placed behind the locked glass casing, next to a picture of some guy named Gretzky. I wipe the tears from my eyes. This is the single greatest moment of my life. A near weeping Dan falls in love with a girl that he has never met before, and Sheila O'Flarherty doles out kisses to her fans. Jacquie and Boyd pull in around 11 after a grueling cross country skiing expedition, and I lose a twelve pack as a result. At last call, we order 30 pints because we are drunk and stupid and it only costs $30. Before going to the next bar, some people decide to get a motel room. We walk to the bar because it is a balmy -8 degrees, and it's only a twenty minute walk, and we're cloaked in the apparel of the Inuit, helmets and jerseys. The bar is packed. Skeeter trades his jersey for a crop top, as dozens of American girls drool at his Adonis-like physique. His face has the hue of a dog's erect penis at this point. We start a dancing, and leave before anyone can beat us up. Everyone has a place to stay except for myself, Skeeter, Treva and Les ("Don't worry Oaf. Nobody's staying at your place on Friday night - execpt for Nate, Foley and Rosco, who will keep your rookie scoring sensation awake all night with a chorus of snoring that rivals that of a Three Tenors performance"). Luckily for the four nomads, Les picked up a brother at the gas station. Isaak Bruce (aka: Kofdrops) offered us a ride, and then offered us a place to stay ("let me check with my boy...Yo Kennedy! We cool?" "Ya, we cool"). Treva and Skeeter, doing their best Uncle Tom impression, take Isaak's absence as an opportunity to express their inherent views on race ("There's no way in hell I'm staying here" "I'm running. Let me out"). Finally, Kofdrops comes back and tells us that it's cool and the gang, and soon we be suckin' on gin an' juice. I slept on the floor while Les took the opportunity to...ahem...thank our gracious host for his hospitality...right next to me. Thanks. I guess people trust that I just don't give a shit. They're right. The next morning, we wake up, and experience one of the great awkward moments of our time. "Well, thanks for having us. See you around". Les gets a number because she's money. From what I heard, Ronnie and The Money Shot conducted a symphony in the hotel room. A complaint is filed with the Potsdam water commission. Some people decide to kill time by going to a movie, while others decide to break into the five star resort that is the Clarkson field house and gymnasium. Wearing shorts and dress shoes, G-Money (as he has now been named) puts on a display of athleticism which illustrates precisely why he is an all american. B*Rad looks like a young Minute Bol with an unstoppable hook. Ross screams Muzletov after draining every fade. Ronnie eats up rebounds like skittles. Sully looks like a cross between Larry Bird and Carlos Arroyo. Team blue falls in defeat twice. Laura does a bang up job of holding the wallets. We then hit the team showers, which, to be honest, is the only reason we play sports to begin with. Sully is walking around naked while shaving, and G-Money says one of the funniest things I've ever heard in a mens locker room; unfortunately, his words cannot be repeated here, most obviously because the same could have been said for all six of us. To kill the rest of the afternoon, we go to Club 99 and start drinking. At about 6, everyone else shows up at the bar, and myself and B*Rad are half in the bag. Sully and Laura have just awoken from their nap on the hospitable couches. We put on our battle gear, and head off to the rink; it is strenuous work being a superfan. Five minutes into the game, Marlene-O, the Screaming Beaver, Lorne and Evelyn show up. My mother immediately disowns her two sons. Later on, the pride of Oakville Ontario, Mark Varteressian, hits short-bus from behind, and we claim that we don't even know where Oakville is. Soon thereafter, Oafy buries his first of the game. End of period, run to bar, drink too much too quickly, and return just in time to have missed Oafy's second goal. Foley and Charlie the band leader are the only two to have seen it. We are still waiting for Dooner to show up, because apparently he missed the team bus. Late in the second period, The Flats buries his third of the game, and some drunken fans lose all inhibitions and throw their helmets on the ice, narrowly missing ECAC goaltender of the week. Nate makes a bullocks of his toss, and his visor hits the mesh, much to the delight of both benches. Details of these events can be found in your local newspapers. Dooner finally shows up by getting a penalty, and we razz him for it because we are assholes. The game ends, but not before two pre-pubescent girls have the opportunity of falling in love with yours truly, and as I high-five them both on my sprint to the bar, one turns to the other and exclaims: "I'm never washing my hand again!" What can I say; chicks dig sweaty drunk guys in helmets. In talking to a man at the latrine, it is arranged that the now- world-famous helmets will be returned to their rightful owners. At the bar, a man asks if we are from Toronto. When we reply in the affirmative, he says, "Yeah, I heard about you guys on the radio today". We are clearly celebrities in the metropolis of Potsdam. Dooner meets us in the bar for a photo shoot, slugs back two pints, and graciously exits by giving us all the finger: classic Dooner. We head up to the all-you-can-eat Taco buffet (who comes up with these ideas) where Sheila takes yet another legendary photograph, this time of the savages at the smorgasborg, and we laugh it up with our people. O'Flaherty is now an Icon after pulling the trick with the town of Oakville in attendance. Back to Club 99 for a few quick ones, the mothers and fathers go home, and the drunken idiots hit up the Crack house. Ronnie, B*Rad, Nate, Sully, and Reed all put on a commendable performance at the Beirut table, but the show is stolen by G-Money ("Quarter? I don't even know 'er!"), who drains a no-look money shot which left the ladies screaming for more. But the show is stolen by B*Rad, who, after much coaxing, proved that Canada is dominant in every concievable category, including shortest finger, by rising to the challenge put forth by Joe "I don't work out any more" Carosa. When ol' Gordie flashed that pinky, and the rousing chants of "CANADA! CANADA!" were finished, it almost seemed as if B*Rad's entire life had been building to that cresendo, that climactic moment. I have never been more proud. Soon it was time to go back to Gert's, but sleep couldn't come until we heard the greatest immitation of Mark Morris in the history of Clarkson hockey, by some rookie screaming into a megaphone at 4am - "Hey Kerry! How many hits do you think you had last night?" "I don't know coach...one maybe?" "Zeeero. That's how many bumps you had". All of this while Ngyan was drinking a sixty of Captain Morgan's spiced rum straight, pausing only to feed some to the thristy plant, before falling head first down the slushy soaked wooden stairs, his hockey hair sopping up sludge like a mop in a McDonalds. I woke up to a megaphone enduced O'Flaherty, when entering the lion's den, saying, "Gert! Wake up. You've never looked so good!". Classic. Flats, Dooner, thanks for the weekend. What a treat. See you boys in the playoffs. Garry Valk. PS - If anyone has my old-style Leafs jersey, let me know. Dan, you were the last one wearing it, but you wouldn't even have been able to remember the number 32 that night.