Oh, the inimicalness between nationals oozed onto the ligneous timbers of the right-angle polygon. A year of detestation — of one side’s covetousness — gurgled inside Daryl’s Dome, climaxing in the 12-monthly tussle amid polysyllable pros and inscription-incapable Joes.

But after the final flings of the orb were flung, the cerise liquescent of Jon Harris’ knuckles irreversibly desiccated, the scribes of The Daily Orange perished at the penny loafers of the raconteurs from WAER. The wielders of ballpoints and broadsheet were a spattering of points to the fore, but the lead was renounced as rebounds caromed catawampus and blasts from beyond the 3-pence parabolic dehydrated. It fastened a 64-58 conquest for the airwavers, the troupe whose carroty and azure tunics mirrored the fanaticism inadequately masqueraded in their handicraft.

Commanded by a twosome of sporting correctors and hailed by a womanly assemblage that preponderated the number of X chromosomes acclaiming its adversary, The D.O. mustered an impressive tally tornado through the opening third of an hour. It galloped to the foreground riding Harris’ hardiness and Ryne Gery’s soundlessness — the former a converted news flash and the latter a taciturn, twinning assassin.

“It’s tough to go out as a senior losing such a close game,” said Mark Cooper, chief of the ink-slingers. “We really thought we had the team to bring the trophy back where it belongs, and we did, for a half. But I’m proud of this staff and will miss playing in this game next year.”

Evidently unhampered sans electronic fedoras, WAER besieged the transparent glass backstop on which an achromatic rectangle is sketched. Chris Lewis, a bouncy and blundering post player, fueled a revival with an inexorable quest of the rawhide pumpkin. He coalesced with Andrew Kanell, a promenading, disputatious temper tantrum, to commandeer the higher score in the waning jiffies.

Aiding the gabbers’ late-game gallivant was an admittedly boozed-up zebra. He gesticulated faux pas that were merely phantoms, swallowed his sound device amid muggings and cognized none of the parameters of James Arthur’s quadrangle.

“He was lit up like the assistant sports copy editors at Battle 2010,” said Michael Cohen, a prowling lecturer on The D.O. sideline.

That wasted whistleblower ultimately doomed the scribbling scribes, as WAER bivouacked itself at the 15-foot ribbon. Free toss after free toss glissaded through the snowy bobbinet en route to an unlawful guerdon.

The everyday Oranges brooded in the wake of their vanquishing, only to ruminate on the pearly perimeter shortly thereafter. For they cavorted in knowing that every WAER hack plucks up a paper with the jovial tune of every aubade, while nay a single intelligencer in The D.O. platoon even retains a shortwave.

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

Published on February 18, 2013 at 1:21 am