October 25th, 2009 
Mark La Rocca Walk with me if you will, down the back streets of Cambridge on this night of a dark moon rising… a Devil’s moon… toward a match celebre’, The Boston Blitz vs. The New Jersey Knockouts. Peripherally, I spy the iconic orange logo of Boston’s own Dunkin’ Donuts… you are tempted, aren’t you?… but, we didn’t stop to pick up the dozen sugar-fix morsels to stimulate team neurons. No, it wasn’t a donut atmosphere… Such a mistake… As we arrive at the Harvard Science center, I search the educated air for the smell of pizza… sausage, peppers, onions… so greasy the lift from the plate to the mouth must be made in less than 0.25 seconds, or one risks permanent shirt spackling. You don’t smell anything?… Hmmm, not a pizza night either.
The alarms in my head were faintly tinkling… something amiss; do you feel it?… and, sure enough, as the match begins, a dark-haired miscreant (some suspect alumni Paul MacIntyre) drops some boxes on the table… Sacre bleur, pastries, the most deadly form of brain fuel… You know the kind… they come with squiggly frosting decorations, some even look like birds or squirrels… they have French names you can’t pronounce and you wonder as you pick them up between your thumb and index finger whether it is proper to extend your pinky… They’re pretty and small enough to inhale, but you don’t. You take a small bite and shout magnifque! They’re not made by bakers… no, their authors are chefs… Oh, I don’t blame Paul (if, indeed, it was him)… How could he know the psychological terror he was unleashing in these insidious confections… nor, could he suspect the ghastly fate that awaited our innocent heroes as each, in turn, consumed the perilous electuaries contained therein.
Continue with me now to that middle ground between light and shadow… Let us view a creation of the mind… a strangely Marzipan game molded and shaped and marked with a B and left in the oven just a little too long… by team manager, and glucose intolerant, Jorge Sammour-Hasbun…
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