3 Sons in the NHL? Oh Yah

Obviously everyone has seen the movies Miracle, Friday Night Lights, and Mystery, Alaska, because they are three of the most badass sports movies, nay works of film, ever created by humans. Why are they so incredibly engrossing? They elevate athletes to the level of demigods: heroes who go to combat with glistening abs and even glisteningier flow (roll with it, Hal). This is where athletes belong in the pantheon of societal respect, wedged right between Achilles and Nelson Mandela. Now, I speak not of those who choose to partake in recreational activities, i.e. skiing, squash, swimming, and call themselves athletes. To those poseurs: please shut up, no one asked you.

I am talking about those champions with the requisite mental, intestinal, and genital fortitude to engage in the most good of all sports: lax, hurling, and Texas football. But above these, still, one remains: ice hockey, a sport so rigorous and so feared by the mainstream population that it has been largely outsourced to Canada, turning that country into a cess pool of subhumanity, where the inhabitants are illiterate in two languages and communicate primarily by grunts and the phrase "Oh yah", as in "Hm. Them guys a bunch of hosers, eh?" "Oh yah." But do not turn up your noses at these simple folk, for they are not dumb. Rather, they are the smartest people ever, as they know that by risking crippling injury and repeated face-washings, they may just find the holy grail, a.k.a. make the Show. Once in the show, you virtually have free reign to do whatever the hell you want. Beat up an opponent? 10,000 more kids just bought your jersey. Beat up your teammate? Get voted to an all-star game. Beat up a cab driver over 30 cents of change? Get your picture on the cover of a video game. Not to mention the plethora of sideline reporters throwing themselves at you; just ask Kathryn Tappen.

At this point, you are probably doing two things, possibly simultaneously. First, you may be kicking yourself, literally or figuratively, for not playing puck and wondering why you did not. In addition, you are wondering how any of this pertains to high school athletics. To answer both questions: you are not descended from King Leonidas himself, and calm down I'm getting there.

Let's get one thing straight: hockey, like a flowing mane, is a gift. Just as Peter Bensen's locks were bequeathed to him by Thor, having the ability to pull off the Datsyuk at 106 mph probably means Bobby Orr anointed you at birth. With that in mind, we can automatically eliminate 99% of humans from the pool of potential candidates for the Saturday game. In addition, to succeed at the greatest sport ever, one must have the will power and ballsy demeanor to power through 20 consecutive herbies because Dan Elliott two-handed some kid in the neutral zone. Add to this the mental acuity necessary to answer such brain-busters as "Who are you?" "Where you from?" and "Who do you play for?", and you have weeded out all but the most genetically exquisite homo sapiens. Which brings me to the 2009-10 Hanover Marauders. We ball. Everyone loves us. We are the coolest, strongest, fastest, smartest, humblest kids in the school, and I know that if it weren't for capacity limitations, every single person from a 35 miles radius would come watch us ball against Exeter on Saturday. But I am not writing this to brag, you all know how rad we are. Rather, please bear this in mind while watching us hang a 12-0 ass-whupping on Nolan Daley and his band of fairy men: we're better than you, and we know it.