Set the Tone!!!
The season’s barely breathing, boys, and someone already pissed on the thermostat. You see the Rangers this week? Seven-one over Jersey. Seven-one! That’s not a score — that’s a police report with highlights.
Every shift looked like penance. Devils didn’t even know what rink they were in by the second. I’m watching from The Dive, beer sweating in my hand, nodding like a proud dad at a felony.
That’s tone. That’s intent. That’s hockey with motive. You don’t wait for permission to bring that kind of heat — you crash the gate, spill your beer, and score till someone shuts the lights off.
The Beauts live by that gospel. Tuesday nights at The Dixie aren’t games; they’re sermons with body checks. Yeah, it’s beer league — cheap ice, cheaper beer — but the creed’s the same: skate through the whistle, chirp through the bruise, leave the building louder than you found it.
So props to the Rangers for reminding everyone what righteous violence looks like. The Beauts will take it from here.
Got to set the tone, boys. Got to SET THE TONE!!!
Shoot the Puck
Roll the tape. Leafs on the power play — four Ferraris, one net, zero courage. Matthews… pass. Marner… pass. Nylander’s thinking about passing. Tavares? Probably writing a letter of intent to pass later.
SHOOT THE PUCK!
They treat the puck like it’s radioactive, boys. Two minutes of possession and the goalie’s scrolling TikTok in the crease. Hockey ain’t a group project — it’s a bad decision that works when you mean it.
One more time for the nerds in blue: SHOOT. THE. PUCK!
Snipe Show
Now that’s how you do it. Ovi hits nine hundred like he’s collecting bounties. Spin, backhand, twine sings, and Binnington’s trying to hide the puck like evidence.
That’s not a goal — that’s folklore. That’s geometry quitting. That’s art, boys. Pour one out for the net.
Beer-League Chronicles
Boys. I woke up grinning and bruised, which means we played last night. Shoulder’s barking, shin’s got a new religion, and I’m ninety percent sure Zoe hot-boxed the Zamboni again. Beauts hockey is back, and The Dixie’s breathing fire.
Step inside that place and it hits you — the smell of beer foam, burnt fries, and dreams that never made it past the neutral zone. Compressor’s humming like an old man snoring through a hangover. Neon from The Dive drips onto the glass like a Florida sunset that’s given up.
Zoe’s making laps in the Jamaican Bobsled — the most beautiful piece of machinery to ever fail a safety inspection. Flag stickers peeling, dents everywhere, reggae blasting through one sad speaker. “Ya ice crisp tonight, boys!” he yells. I yell back, “Ya brakes not, Zoe!” He honks twice — which in Zoe means respect.
Lexi’s behind the bar, ponytail high, Lightning tattoo peeking under her cutoff tank, tan skin catching the amber glow. She’s got that mix of confidence and chaos that makes you think she could pour a beer and start a brawl in the same motion. She gives me that half-smile, half-warning. “Don’t start a fight tonight, Boltsy.” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell her. Bit young for me, boys — but the kind of trouble that still makes you stand up straighter.
Locker room’s pure poetry. pOe’s giving a Mighty Ducks pep talk to nobody. Sauce is muttering in Spanglish and taping his stick like it owes him money. The Daves are head-butting each other for chemistry. Gator’s stretching with a Busch Light. Me? I’m pacing like a shark in a kiddie pool — captain, chaos, miracle worker.
We hit the ice. Lights flicker, crowd roars, Finesse’s voice drops from the booth like a pirate prophet:
“Ladies and gentlemen — and those still finding themselves — welcome to The Dixie! Home of your Riverview Beauts!”
Boom fires the cannon early, scares two toddlers and one ref. Perfect timing.
Puck drops, and I’m immediately in somebody’s way. First hit rattles the glass, Marty “Two-Minute” Finkel’s whistle screams, and I throw my arms up like, for what?! Two minutes. Always two minutes. I skate to the Sad Cube yelling, “Call me for breathing next, Marty!”
Back out, redemption arc loading. Puck squirts loose, I grab it, legs pumping like bad credit — one fake, one rip, bar-down glory. Twine sings. Zoe honks twice, Boom fires again, and Finesse bellows,
“Boltsy lights the lamp! The Beauts baptize The Dixie!”
The Dive explodes. Beer flies, Lexi laughs, The Daves start wrestling, Gator’s chugging mid-crease like he’s celebrating a shutout that hasn’t happened yet. Opponent skates by: “Nice goal, beer-league hero.” I grin. “Thanks, sweetheart — autographs after the game.”
No clue what the score was. Don’t care. Beauts don’t play for points; we play for tone. And last night? Boys, we set it.
The Kid at the Mic
Scene: postgame, rink-side. The Kid’s standing on a milk crate with Finesse’s stolen mic.
The Kid:
“We’re here with Boltsy — captain, loud person, penalty enthusiast. You said the Beauts were going to ‘set the tone.’ Is the tone just yelling?”
Boltsy:
“It’s about energy and—”
The Kid:
“Because it sounded mostly like cardio and regret.”
Boltsy:
“Listen, kid—”
The Kid:
“Also, you missed the net three times from the same spot. Are you allergic to goals?”
Boltsy:
“Sometimes the puck—”
The Kid:
“Right, anyway. This interview is brought to you by the Make-A-Beaut Foundation, giving underprivileged captains a second chance to sound smart. Donate today, so guys like Boltsy can keep dreaming.”
The Kid walks off. I just stand there, blinking through trauma and sweat.
Sad Cube, Bag, or Beauty
Alright boys, logic’s for losers — time for Sad Cube, Bag, or Beauty.
Sad Cube: Jon Cooper. Too respectable to admit I love him. Makes me feel like I should own khakis.
Bag: Marty “Two-Minute” Finkel. Bagged forever. Whistles like he’s calling coyotes.
Beauty: Alex Ovechkin. Nine hundred goals and counting. Still scores like he’s late for dinner. That’s art, boys.
Hot Hockey Babes
Starting local. Lexi from The Dixie. Bartender. Barback. Beer therapist. Lightning tattoo, slap-shot scar, and a pour that could fix your life or end your week.
Bit young for me, boys — but credit where it’s due.
Thunderstruck
They went down 2-zip early, then Hagel hits his 100th, Kuch goes full god-mode, and Vasy starts swallowing pucks like he’s powered by divine spite.
Everyone keeps waiting for Tampa to cool off. You can’t. You don’t cool off lightning — you just pray it’s not aiming at you.
Florida doesn’t blink, boys. It strikes.
Beauts didn’t lose. Beauts never lose. And if you heard otherwise — they’re lying.
