I missed the team lunch but with my luck, however, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Midway through the third period, my teammates, having indulged in a questionable batch of chicken wings, succumbed to a wave of nausea.
Panic set in. The coach was livid, the opposing team gleeful. The referees, faced with a potential forfeit, offered a lifeline: one hour to find replacements. I, thinking quickly, dismissed the beer league and the fans. My eyes fell upon the rink staff. The Zamboni driver, Tony, proved surprisingly agile in net. Marty, the equipment manager, surprisingly physical on defense. Brenda, the ticket booth lady, surprisingly swift on her skates. And Sal, the concession stand worker, surprisingly accurate with his slap shot. The makeshift team, a motley crew of rink regulars, took the ice. Gus made some spectacular saves, Marty laid out bone-crushing hits, Brenda weaved through the opposition, and Sal scored a miraculous goal.
The final ten minutes were a nail-biter, but the Battle Born held on, securing a miraculous victory.