Alright BIIHers and the few emotionally invested fans scattered around the world… this year a certain little hockey show, Heated Rivalry, took over, and honestly, the All-Seeing Puck couldn’t ignore what it was reflecting back at us.
Because let’s be real… neither that show nor this league has ever really been about hockey.
You’ve got your Russians, your Canadians, your Americans, all pretending this is about systems and structure… when it’s really about tension. Proximity. The way things carry over when the game ends but nobody leaves.
On the ice, you’re enemies. You chirp. You push. You make it look like you can’t stand each other.
Off the ice… yeah. That part gets a little harder to explain.
Not after the Parking Lot.
Not after squeezing into dressing rooms that are a little too small.
Not after squatting each other.
Not after QS.
Not after those late nights where no one really remembers what was said… just how close everyone was standing.
And the secrecy? Please.
Half of you act like BIIH is some kind of double life. Like this is something you need to keep hidden. Like people finding out what actually goes on here would change things.
It wouldn’t.
Everyone already knows.
They just don’t say it out loud.
I left you this past year. Disappeared. No blogs, no chirps, nothing. A clean break. Or at least that’s what I told myself. But just like Shane could not leave Ilya… just like every “this is the last time” in this league… it wasn’t real.
Because in BIIH, nobody really leaves.
And more importantly… nobody lets anything go. Sit back, grab a beer, and let’s take a look at some of BIIH’s most heated rivalries.
Note: I was a few glasses of wine deep when writing this blog so the pics looked good to me…
Mark Mungo vs. Stats
With Forman gone, there was a void. Not in talent… in noise. And somehow Mark Mungo stepped into it like he’d been waiting all season.
Because this was never really about hockey for him.
It was about the assists. His assists. The way he’d bring them up mid-conversation, mid-shift, mid-anything. Pestering refs, the box, the Commish… like if he said it enough, it would finally mean something.
“I’ve got the most assists.”
Yeah. We heard you. But did we really “hear” him?
This is BIIH. It’s never been about the stats. And deep down… he knows that too.
Selley vs. Trav after Ballbuster Championship
You never want to see a good thing go bad… but sometimes it does anyway.
Trav and Selley. Captains in BIIH, captains in life. Solid. Reliable. Until they weren’t.
It started with a win. Fall 2025. Ballbusters. Selley left it all out there, playing like he had something to prove. And Trav? Standing there, drinking beer out of a plastic baseball bat like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t notice.
When it ended, it should’ve been easy. Celebration. Beers. A trip to ORG for the Sunday night game.
But it wasn’t.
Because Selley needed his guy. And Trav… hesitated. “Do I have to play hockey tonight?”
Words were said. Nothing huge. Just enough. The kind of stuff that lingers longer than it should. The kind you pretend doesn’t matter… until it does. They bickered. Pushed. Pulled. Both acting like it wasn’t a big deal.
It was.
But here’s the thing about BIIH. About this league. About them.
No one actually leaves.
Trav didn’t walk. Didn’t disappear. He showed up to the game. Stayed. Put in the work. 41 beers later, still there.
Because at the end of the day… it was never about the hockey.
Everyone vs. the Refs
You tell yourself it’s about the call.
The missed trip. The soft hook. The one that changed everything.
You look at the ref like that’s where it went wrong. Like if they had seen it… it would’ve been different.
But it wouldn’t have.
Because deep down, you already know.
It’s easier to blame the ref… than admit you lost it yourself.
Malmo vs. Bench Penalties
Like Scott Hunter in Heated Rivalry, someone always has to take the fall, and this season… it was Malmo.
You want to believe it meant something. That he did it for the team. For the Revs. That there was some loyalty there.
But there wasn’t.
Because the truth is… the Revs didn’t really care. They needed someone to take the hit, and he was there. And that was enough.
Expos vs. Vodka
Much like Shane, the Expos also learned about Russians… the hard way.
Vitaly didn’t ease them into it. He just poured vodka down their throats like the goal was to erase everything, the losses, the mistakes, the memories.
And for a while… it worked.
They stopped feeling it. Stopped thinking about it.
Unfortunately, they also stopped thinking altogether.
Mark Futerman vs. the Ice
A lot like Ilya, Russian Mark Futerman has a complicated relationship with the ice.
It gave him moments, flashes where everything worked, where it felt easy. Like he belonged out there.
And then it didn’t.
Because just as quickly, it turned on him. Snapped him back to reality and literally snapped his leg. Left him broken, hurting, staring at the same ice that gave him everything and took it right back.
And the worst part?
He’s still going to come back to it.
Mark Futerman vs. a staircase at the Local
Sometimes, in BIIH, people don’t just have your back… they literally carry you.
It was the Halloween pub crawl. Futerman, leg freshly broken. The Local, stairs, no elevator, no chance.
On paper, that’s where it ends. Where someone gets left behind.
But this is BIIH.
So instead, they picked him up. Wheelchair, Flash costume, dignity already gone, and hauled him upstairs anyway. Not because it made sense. Not because it was easy.
Because no one gets left behind… not when there are still beers to be had.
League vs. Revs (Jersey Gate)
Sometimes you think it’s about fairness. An even playing field. Same rules, same look, same everything.
But it never is.
Because some people take a little more. Push a little further. Get away with it.
And you tell yourself it’s about the jerseys.
It’s not.
It’s about that moment you looked across the ice, saw the Revs looking sharp, put together… and then looked down at your own team and felt it.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
Field Lacrosse vs. Ice Lacrosse
Different teams. Different worlds.
Like Ilya and Shane… you tell yourselves that’s where it ends.
All of you choose field. Moose chooses ice. Says everything you need to know, really. Not about rivalry… about survival.
Because this isn’t about competition.
It’s about choices.
And some of you… clearly value your lives.
BIIHers vs. Birth Control
This year, the tension didn’t stay on the ice.
It followed you into the locker room. Into the Parking Lot. Into the late nights that were supposed to mean nothing… and somehow didn’t.
Because somewhere along the way, lines got crossed. Things got… serious.
A whole wave of BIIHers stepped out of the chaos and into something permanent. Dad mode. No more pretending it’s just hockey. No more “it doesn’t mean anything.”
It did.
And now there’s a new generation coming, baby BIIHers on the way, growing up in a league built on bad decisions, beer, and whatever this is. Hopefully they turn out better. Statistically, they have to.
So congrats to Marat, Moose, Joe Zhang, Finn, Noah and Olli… for committing. Fully. No backup plan. No pulling out of it this time.
Big season for the league.
Bigger consequences.
Stomach vs. Dirty Tony’s
You tell yourself you’re done. That you’ve learned. That this time will be different.
It won’t be.
Because it’s never really about the food. It’s about the pull. The late nights. The decisions you already know you’re going to regret… and still make anyway.
You go back. Every time.
And in the moment, it feels right. Necessary, even.
Until the next day.
And then it stays with you. Longer than it should. Longer than you want to admit.
But give it a week… maybe less.
And you’ll be right back there again.
Ames vs. Grip Strength
You think she’s got control.
Stick in her hands. Open ice. Time to make something happen.
For a moment… it’s all there.
And then it’s not.
Because with Ames, it’s never really about the play. It’s about the grip. Or lack of it. The way the stick just… disappears at the worst possible time, like it was never really hers to begin with.
You watch it happen. Again. And again.
And she laughs it off. Like it doesn’t matter.
But it does.
Because somewhere in that moment… she had it.
And then she didn’t.
The Commish vs. Emily (Jersey Gate pt. 2)
You think it’s simple.
You send the order. The names. The letters. Everything laid out exactly the way it’s supposed to be.
And for a moment… it feels under control.
Then the jerseys show up.
And something’s off.
Because with Emily, it’s never just an order. It’s interpretation. Choices. Decisions no one asked for. Like not making Richie a captain… for reasons no one can explain.
You tell yourself it’s a mistake.
But it keeps happening.
And at some point, you start to wonder…
Is it really?
You won’t win the Parking Lot Trophy…
– The All Seeing Puck
