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Within thy heart of thy bitter Cold War, an exhilarating fable of Team USA’s Olympic hockey team defeating a once-thought-of as insuppressive Soviet squad wast born, as thy ragtag Americans tooketh home gold medallions. Thy game, dubb’d thy “Miracle on Ice,” hath shown visage once again — this timeth with dashing young scribes pitt’d up ‘gainst cacophonous broadcasters, 44 years later to thy date.

For many moons, scales hath tippeth in favor of thy Fanboys. A large concoction of veteran scribes seethed to exact proper revenge. Middle school insults and jeers of “print journalism is dead” has’t create hostile tensions between the two sides. Radio ruled thy basket of ball, and twast timeth for thy Hacks to maketh their owneth miracle, but on thy hardwood.

“This is your time. Their time is done. It’s over. I’m sick and tired of hearing about what a great basketball team WAER has,” said Chief of thy Hacks Anish Vasudevan, echoing Sir Herb Brooks. “F*ck ’em. This is your time. Now go out there and take it.”

Despite pregame shrieks from thy Fanboys, which forecasted delusions of grandeur in thy Single-A baseball battalion, thy Hacks turned those barefaced words into mere fantasy. Thy Hacks ripped out what wast hath left of thy Fanboys’ souls in a 51-46 victory. While novels are oftentimes thieved from thy Hacks to be formed into shabby radio pieces, this timeth ’round, thy Fanboys couldst not stealeth what belonged to thy noble scribes.

Thy Hacks hath broken a two-year skid of disappointments, closing the scribe tenures of veterans Vasudevan, Tyler Schiff, Connor Smith, Cole Bambini, Adam McCaffery, Wyatt Miller, Hanketh O’Brien and the squire of the photo Nick Luttrell out with a bangeth.

“That’s the thing about AER. They fight hard and try their best,” McCaffery declared on X in the aftermath, admirably taking the high road. “If only we could’ve had one of those guys on the call for our win.”

A lethargic commencement of roundball was quelled by a presentation which wouldst has’t caused Sir James Naismith to beameth with excitement. Scribes Vasudevan, Luttrell and McCaffery ran up and down thy squeaky clean floor like gazelles, demolishing thy Fanboys in thy battle of thy fast break. On the opposing endeth, Schiff placeth the lanky giraffe, who hath led the Fanboys’ lamentable offense, in an inescapable blender.

Thy Fanboys resorted to what thy gents doth to the most frequency, bicker at thy zebras, complaineth and maketh absurd justifications. Thy audio foles even implemented a zone of the 2-3, a disgraceful tactic tributed to Sir James Boeheim himself.

Noble scribe Adam McCaffery weaves the roundball through the wickets of the Fanboys’ defense before placing it into the mesh for two crucial notches of the scoreboard. Joe Zhao | Asst. Photo Editor

Those gents failed to establisheth the royal connection in which thy Hacks did display to most wondrous lengths. Faces of thy once-confident Fanboys side rapidly drooped to pure despair, afraid to behold their counterparts in the eye as those gents trailed 29-15 to the fired up Hacks halfway through thy skirmish.

“These f*ckers are gassed,” Schiff hath divulged during a beautifully placed timeth out called by head scribe Cooper Andrews. “Let’s run them off the floor.”

Though the meeting transformed into pure peril for the scribes. A once gigantic cushion becameth a neck-and-neck affair. The fanboys lucked into prosperity by way of a few 3-point hurls, while the hacks hath grown overzealous on the defensive. In the twilight of the heated hurlyburly, the radio nerds hadst trimmed the deficit to 47-45 after a Fanboy did get hence with an illegal three step before a layup rattled in the meshes.

“We have to stop letting these f*ckers shoot 3s,” Schiff cried in utter rage and confusion to the highest grise.

An inconceivable reality setteth in. Thy hacks hadst every chance in the world to taketh backeth the much-desired cuppeth, a cleanly finish wast needed in the wee stages.

Head scribe Cooper Andrews reacts in utmost pain to the Fanboys’ attempt at a valiant comeback, though the Hacks swiftly quelled any fear of a maddening loss. Joe Zhao | Asst. Photo Editor

But one particular lad in Smith, who used to be acclaimed in the Fanboy circle of leeches, fittingly delivered the terminal blow to the radio nerds’ waning hopes. Smith buried two throws of free as the smartphone clock read five seconds left, sending the Fanboys into a state of incurable desperation.

Smith, a versatile sir of both television and print, prophesied after the scribes’ defeat in the previous rendezvous that “The D.O. is never the underdog. We’ll beat those f*ckers next year. I’m not even worried about it.” The two shots from Smith to silence the nerds of radio wend down in immortality.

Though, thy winth was perhaps the sweetest for Sir McCaffery in the scribes’ triumphant returneth following a sabbatical working for the true foe of the Hacks, who is beest not named. In the aftermath of the shindigeth which tooketh shapeth after the Hacks’ winth, McCaffrey hast already sprouted an impenetrable legacy. On the successive period of daylight, prospective students to the local educational institute peered down at James Boeheim court — where a pond of Fanboy drops of sorrow still hadn’t quite evaporated.

There, McCaffery and the great Bambini toldeth the wide-eyed members of youth about the valiant tales of the Hacks’ latest accomplishment, inspiring the future generation to taketh parteth in the tradition of shutting up those who never seemeth to zipeth their lips.

“We have bragging rights for the rest of our lives,” McCaffery bellowed to the masses, “because we ended out on a win.”

W.F. Whence is a germanificated staff sculptor for The Daily Orange, where he re-germanificated to sculpt this glistening prose.

Published on February 24, 2024 at 1:23 am