Welcome back, BIIHers, and to all the family and friends watching from around the world. Last Sunday was BIIH Family and Friends Night. First off, I just gotta say—I’m shocked some of you actually have people who care about you. I know damn well they didn’t come for the hockey. Maybe they lost a bet, maybe they were promised free beer, or maybe they just wanted to witness the glorious train wreck that is beer league hockey in person. Whatever the reason, they got their money’s worth. That being said, BIIH really is like a family—not the nice kind where everyone loves each other and takes Christmas card photos in matching pajamas, but the dysfunctional kind where arguments break out over who knocked up whose ex, someone’s screaming about unpaid gambling debts, and Grandma’s threatening to put someone in the will “just to spite the rest of you.” It’s the kind of gathering where fists fly before dessert, half the family refuses to speak to each other by the end of the night, and someone definitely leaves in a cop car. And on Family & Friends Night, we put that dysfunction on full display. With playoffs around the corner, tensions were as high as when Dad brings his 23-year-old girlfriend to the high school graduation. There were tears, fights, and stepchildren left behind as every team gave it everything they had (which, in some cases, wasn’t much). So buckle up, grab a beer, and let’s relive the embarrassing, rage-inducing, and wildly inappropriate spectacle that was BIIH’s biggest family reunion…

Game #1 Hot Wings vs. the Bulls was a full-blown domestic dispute on ice. This one was hotter and messier than when Mom catches Dad flirting with the nanny. The Bulls stormed out of the gate like divorced dads trying to prove they’re still in their prime, with Cuttsy burying one from Commish and Baker. Then Kusy, fueled by either sheer talent or a deep, unresolved need for parental approval, potted another off a Baker feed. It was a gritty, physical, defensive first half, the kind where grandpa’s slamming his fist on the table yelling “back in my day!” every time someone tries to make a finesse play. The score sat at 2-0 at the break, and the Hot Wings were looking more lost than Cousin Ricky at his third failed marriage intervention. Then, in the second half, Tiger finally snapped out of his coma and put one in for the Hot Wings, bringing them back to life like a drunk uncle who just found out there’s whiskey in the garage. But the Bulls weren’t having it. Rob Tabone jumped in and buried one. Kusy put another one away like a bitter ex claiming more than his fair share in the divorce. Liam answered back with a tally of his own to make it 4-2, but this one was already as good as settled, like Dad’s weekend custody agreement. With the Hot Wings trying desperately to claw back, Savitch sealed the deal with an empty-netter, bringing it to 5-2 for the Bulls—who left the rink like the clear winners of the inheritance fight. Next game, the Hot Wings might want to try showing up before they’re already in a two-goal hole. Or at least bring a better lawyer…

Game # 2 was a full-blown family scandal as the Expos and Bears shared the love like long-lost lovers who just found out they’re distant cousins—awkward, messy, and leaving everyone questioning their life choices. The Expos came out hotter than Uncle Jimmy after six whiskeys at Thanksgiving, with Larry and Charlie each burying one, and Ames chipping in a third. But the Bears weren’t about to roll over and play dead, with Forman getting them on the board before Larry decided he wasn’t done and sniped two more. JZ added another one for the Expos. Selley clawed one back for the Bears, but at the half, it was 6-2 Expos, and the Bears looked like they had just been told Grandma died. Then came the second half, the part of the family reunion where everyone’s drunk and old grudges resurface. Forman, fueled by either pure spite or beer league adrenaline, popped another one in off a setup from Ian and Bob. Selley followed suit, finishing a play from Finn and Illya. Just when it looked like the Bears might crawl back, Charlie ripped two more for the Expos like a pissed-off aunt making a scene at a wedding. But the Bears refused to die. Forman got his third, and Vlad picked one up. Before the buzzer, Forman completed his beer league hat trick plus one, tying it at 8-8 and sending this mess into a shootout. The shootout went on and on, like a divorce settlement that just won’t end. But finally, Expos Captain Richie stepped up, stared down the goalie like a dad who just found out his kid crashed the car, and buried the game-winner. Expos take it in the shootout, Bears take home emotional trauma…

Game # 3 was the Warriors vs. the Oilers. This one had all the family dysfunction of a bad will reading, one side came ready to fight for what’s rightfully theirs, while the other sat there in stunned silence, realizing they were getting absolutely nothing. The Warriors came out swinging like cousins fighting over Grandma’s jewelry, with Pavel striking first off a feed from OK Wang. The Oilers, meanwhile, had all the energy of a dad who swore he was “just closing his eyes for a second” and woke up three hours later. They stood around long enough for Pavel to score again, this time off TripleW and some guy named Toronto. No idea who that is, but I assume he’s got big stepdad energy. Shows up unannounced, contributes just enough to not get yelled at, then disappears. At halftime, it was 2-0 Warriors. The second half didn’t get much better for the Oilers, who flopped harder than a middle-aged uncle trying to relive his high school sports days. Joe Zhang picked one up from Mungo, and then Mungo decided to do it himself and buried another. TripleW put the final nail in the coffin, making it 5-0, and at this point, the Oilers had officially given up. They were standing around like teenagers forced to attend a family wedding, barely pretending to care. And then, the real kicker, Aken shut the door for the first shutout of the season, which is about as rare as a sober uncle at Christmas. LFG Aken! Final score: 5-0 Warriors. The Oilers leave with the same defeated look as a kid who just found out their college fund was blown on Dad’s failed cryptocurrency scheme—broke, broken, and questioning every life choice that led them here…

Game #4 was the Revs vs. the Phantoms. The Phantoms ghosted harder than a cousin who only shows up when they need bail money. Resident family man FillyZ did what he does best—looked good, entertained the crowd, and “mulled” one over like a dad debating whether to intervene in his kids’ screaming match or just pretend he didn’t hear it. But with zero Phantoms in sight, this one automatically went to the Revs, making it the easiest W they’ll get all season.

At the end of the day, hockey is just a sideshow. The real prize, the one that truly unites (and divides) this dysfunctional family, is the Parking Lot Trophy. The beer-soaked holy grail. The only thing more fought over than Grandpa’s secret liquor stash at Christmas. Sunday night, the drinks were flowing, and the post-game buzz was hitting just right. BIIHers were lingering like your aunt’s dirtbag ex who still shows up at family BBQs even though they broke up three years ago. The games were intense, but the real battle was fought in the dressing room and the parking lot, where beers were cracked, egos were nursed, and the nonsense was flowing faster than your cousin’s bullshit excuses for not paying back that “small loan.” For a moment, it was pure hockey bliss. No one got kicked out of the dressing room. No one got yelled at by Rink Guy. The hockey gods smiled upon BIIH, and for once, we left on our own terms. And that’s when tragedy struck. The Parking Lot Trophy—our pride, our joy, the one thing holding this league together—was carelessly dropped to the pavement like a newborn nobody wanted to claim. I’m not saying it was the Commish’s fault… but I’m also not NOT saying it. The silence was deafening. Beers were paused. Heads were shaken. A single tear may have been shed. In the end, the Warriors, Expos, and Bulls shared the remnants of what once was—another fallen trophy, gone too soon, but never forgotten. Rest in pieces, you magnificent bastard. We will rebuild…

You won’t win the Parking Lot trophy next week…

– The All Seeing Puck