Boston · Men's League · Est. in the slot
A herd of elephants on skates. Boston-based. Currently tearing up Montréal with one thing on our minds: lifting the cup.
Before we talk about us, we have to talk about what we're made of. And what we're made of is sauce.
"When a player takes the puck and passes it to another in the air — that is a sauce pass. So sauce hockey, is a game where the puck is in the air a lot."
Three things you need to know before you line up against us.
Born in the shadow of the Garden, forged on Bean-town rinks at unreasonable hours. We are the 11:15 PM ice slot. We are the parking lot beers after. We are Boston men's league — with a twist.
Our jerseys carry the elephant because we move as one, we never forget, and when we hit the rush, the ice shakes. Some teams wear a bird. Some wear a bear. We wear twelve thousand pounds of pachyderm.
Our two rules. In that order. Nobody on this team is making the NHL. But we will absolutely give you the whole shift, the whole tournament, and every ounce of sauce in the bottle.
Current location: somewhere between Boston and the trophy room.
We loaded the van, crossed the border, and hit Montréal ice with one objective: lift the cup and sauce our way back down I-93 with hardware in the trunk. The city that gave hockey its soul is hosting. We're hoping to give them a show they won't forget. Hoping. Is. Doing.
Ten skaters and one wall. No last names — we're protecting the innocent (and the two-minute minors).
Pure goal scorer. Finds his spot, waits for the sauce, buries it. If a rebound lives longer than a second in the crease, he's already on it. Just don't sit too close to him.
Big locker room guy. Currently serving a suspension in another league for "expressing himself with his fists." Backs up his teammates, warms up the room, and somehow always knows where the best post-game food is.
Rookie out of Massachusetts with real hands and real wheels. His off-ice game is still a work in progress — last outing may or may not have involved a gentle escort out of the bar.
Prodigal son of the sauce. Original member returning after years in the wilderness. The elephants never forgot. The elephants are pumped.
Veteran of a thousand rinks, brand new to the Sauce sweater. Doesn't rush. Doesn't panic. Just finds his spot and rips them far side low with the quiet poise of a guy who's seen this movie before. We're lucky to have him in the herd.
Rookie with a rocket. Ripped some absolute laser beams in our opener and immediately put the rest of the league on notice. Nickname pending.
Fearless leader, team organizer, two-way force. The reason this roster exists, the van is gassed up, and the ice is booked. The herd follows John.
South Boston's finest defenseman. Plays like you owe him money. Honestly, some of you probably do.
Rookie defenseman. Solid on the blue line — less solid behind the wheel on the Boston-to-Montréal leg. If you're a deer, respectfully, stay in the woods tonight.
Resident programmer. Only on the team because the WiFi at the rink needed fixing and then nobody had the heart to cut him. Also built this website — so, you're welcome.
Between the pipes
— the man, the myth, the legend.
" If the puck gets past me, it's because I wanted it to.
▲ scroll to suit up the goalie
An elephant never forgets. A stampede always arrives. Stay out of our lane.
One bus. One cup. One herd.
— 24 Hours of Sauce