On January 13 the big rivalry game against Stang ensued, Dartmouth victorious, and more shockingly, I was proved wrong. You’re welcome. For all the money it costs to be a student at Stang, their hockey team couldn’t buy a goal, leading the Dartmouth crowd to intermittently chant, “Daddy’s money,” to the delight of Dartmouth parents, and the expense of Bishop Stang. The Dartmouth team not only played “better than,” they fully utilized their teammates, weaving seamlessly from aggressive offense to stonewall defense, and seemed omnisciently aware of where their man was.
Stang clearly from the beginning knew they couldn’t out-strategize Dartmouth, so they decided to play dirty, creating a scene not dissimilar to the raid of Macbeth’s castle, sticks laying dormant like swords of fallen soldiers on the ice.
By the end of the first, the hockey moms and I were completely bewildered at the ignorance of the referees. Stang clearly from the beginning knew they couldn’t out-strategize Dartmouth, so they decided to play dirty, creating a scene not dissimilar to the raid of Macbeth’s castle, sticks laying dormant like swords of fallen soldiers on the ice. The game seemed like it would be close, maybe even in Stang’s favor if they continued their brutalization of Dartmouth with the first period ending in 2-1 (Dartmouth v. Stang).
But alas that first goal would be Stang’s last thanks to Ashton Machado’s goalie prowess. Dartmouth would win 5-1. However, by no means was it a bloodless victory, with three penalties during the game. Even with incapable referees, each goal felt like a finishing blow; avenging players that were slaughtered by the bigger and stronger Stang. During the second, despite Dartmouth’s many, many shots, no goals were scored by either team: a tense truce, defined by the exasperated sighs of onlookers. The third period would be defined by a streak of goals that left Stang silent. What began with Stang brutality, ended with Dartmouth mercilessly scoring goal after goal, seemingly less affected by Stang’s bloodlust than Stang themselves.
I left the game pleasantly surprised, as I found a new group of Hockey moms to adopt me into their clan, and a pair of grandparents that referred to me as Coach Bombay; I’d like to think I was, but the real heroes were the mighty Dartmouth players, and Coach Rossi. However, like every good side-arm sports commentator, Coach Bombay hasn’t retired just yet, you don’t stop when you win, you stop when there are no games left to win.
