--- Cherry Pickers: A Locker Room Folklore Ask around long enough in any beer league, and someone will tell you about them. The Cherry Pickers. A Monday night squad in jerseys so creamy white they looked like they belonged in a museum — until the puck dropped. By the end of the first period those whites weren’t so pure anymore: sweat stains, beer stains, and maybe a little blood. Cherries on the sleeves, or so the story goes — some sewn on, some earned the hard way. Jesse? They say he smiles when he beats you — a grin like a villain in a movie. You’ll swear you had him lined up, then he’s gone, and you’re staring at your goalie fishing the puck out of the net. Aaron? The tale goes that he’s broken more ankles than anyone in the league. Not by hits — by dangling defenders into knots, making them look like they’d never worn skates before. Steve? Oh, everyone’s heard about Steve’s shot. Hard as hell, fast as sin. Pucks don’t just hit you, they hurt you. Guys who’ve blocked one still talk about it years later — over beers, with fresh scars to prove it. “A borderline criminal offense,” that’s what the legends call it. And Lee? The wild card. One night it’s a two-handed tomahawk swing straight out of a lumberjack contest. The next, it’s the softest trip you’ve ever seen whistled. Either way, Lee’s in the box chuckling, and the Pickers are howling like hyenas. But the strangest figure in the folklore isn’t even on the ice. It’s Greg. The Director of the Rink. The man who never plays, never skates — yet still holds every team in his grip. His weapon isn’t a stick, it’s the schedule. The dreaded 10:30 PM Monday slot. A curse whispered about in locker rooms across the league. Everyone blames Greg, even if they’re not sure why. “Greg did this,” they say, dragging themselves into late-night games, half-dead before warmups. Greg is the shadow over the Cherry Pickers’ kingdom — the villain you never see, but always feel. The refs? The stories say some survived, some didn’t. Trips to the ER? Just part of the price of admission. And yet, week after week, the Cherry Pickers showed up. Because for them, it wasn’t just hockey. It was life. Living to play, playing to live. When the game ended, the real ritual began: the crack of beer cans in the locker room, sweaty laughter echoing off cinderblock walls, stories getting taller by the minute. And always, always, the late-night pilgrimage — headlights guiding them to Taco Bell. Crunchwrap Supremes, Supreme, supreme — the holy grail of a Monday night warrior. So remember this next time you see a team in creamy white sweaters, cherries on the sleeves, maybe a bloodstain or two. It might just be them. The Cherry Pickers. Cherry what? PICKERS! ---