Hark! From the frost-bitten shores of the St. Lawrence to the treacherous, limestone-heavy depths of Lake Ontario, the word has spread faster than wildfire in a gunpowder hold. The McGill Red Birds, those scarlet-clad corsairs of the frozen brine, have engaged in a most savage skirmish against the Golden Gaels of Queen’s—a vessel so stiffly starched you’d think her sails were fashioned from Her Majesty’s own silk petticoats. 'Twas a duel for the ages, fought not with cutlass and cannon, but with blades of tempered steel strapped to their boots and sticks of ash swung with the fury of a kraken’s tentacle. The air was cold enough to freeze the brass off a compass, yet the intensity on the ice burned hot enough to boil the very grog in our bellies.

The battle commenced with a ferocity that rattled the very barnacles off the rink’s hull. The Gaels, led by their puffed-up officers, attempted to blockade the McGill goal with a wall of gold-and-blue timber, but the Red Birds’ defense was as impenetrable as a treasure chest locked with a rusted skeleton key. By the second period, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of frozen sweat and desperation. 'I haven’t seen a boarding action so rhythmic since we outran the Spanish Main with a hold full of stolen nutmeg and illicit marmalade,' remarked Quartermaster 'Toothy' McPhee, wiping a spray of crystalline ice from his eye-patch. 'Those McGill boys didn’t just play a sport; they boarded the Gaels’ ship, dismantled their rigging, and stripped the gold leaf from their very jerseys!'

The turning point came during a frantic power-play that felt like a hurricane in a tea-kettle. A McGill midshipman launched a black vulcanized doubloon—what the landlubbers call a 'puck'—with such velocity it nearly splintered the Queen’s goalie like a rotten mast. 'The velocity was unnatural, I tell ye!' hollered Lord Martlet of the Montreal Docks, his voice echoing through the rafters. 'If we could harness that kinetic power to propel our galleons, we’d be in Tortuga for a weekend bender before the sun sets on the British Empire!' The Queen’s men fought back with the stubbornness of a mule in a gale, but their pride was their undoing. They spent more time in the 'Sin Bin'—that wretched brig for the unruly—than they did defending their own waters, leaving their flank exposed to the McGill blades.

Make no mistake, me hearties, this victory carries weight far beyond the mere tally of scores on a wooden board. With McGill reigning supreme on the crystalline shallows, the trade routes through the Montreal ports remain under the influence of the Red Bird flag, ensuring our rum rations remain untaxed by the Kingston crown. Had the Queen’s crew prevailed, we’d all be forced to trade our precious grog for lukewarm Earl Grey and pay a 'tribute tax' to those limestone-dwelling aristocrats. The very stability of our maritime economy rested on those frozen shoals, and by Neptune’s salt-encrusted beard, the right side won. The rum shall flow tonight in every tavern from Peel Street to the Old Port, while the Queen’s men lick their wounds and wonder where their dignity drifted off to.

So, raise a flagon of the strongest swill ye can find and toast to the victors! The McGill Armada has defended the frozen north, and the Gaels have been sent back to their harbor with tails tucked and sails shredded into ribbons. Let this be a stern warning to any who dare challenge the scarlet-winged terrors of the ice: your gold is our gold, your pride is our plunder, and your victories are naught but driftwood in our wake! To the Red Birds go the spoils, and to the Gaels goes the bitter taste of Lake Ontario bilge water!