Hypocrites
Gig Seeker Pro

Hypocrites

| INDIE

| INDIE
Band Rock World

Calendar

This band hasn't logged any future gigs

This band hasn't logged any past gigs

This band has not uploaded any videos
This band has not uploaded any videos

Music

Press


We apologise for the lack of press. We are outcasts in Montreal, forced to subsist on grubs and other insects, only going out at night for fear of violent retribution from the tight-trousered hypster teenagers. But if you come to our secret hide out we'll make you some tea. - No one


Discography

2008 - The White EP
2009 - The Black EP

Photos

Bio

As I sit in my rocking chair, memories of days past flood back to me. I sit and recall boyhood summers on the lake, my first kiss, tomfoolery, adolescent shenanigans. Suddenly, a vivid recollection returns. It brings a smile to my face. I will never forget the '09 Montreal Hypocrites, arguably the greatest team to ever play professional sport in our time. And I, if you will accept my word, had the honor of being part of the team for that one glorious season when anything was possible and we held the earth aloft in our mighty hands. Perhaps you've heard tales of our skill and spirit, our grit and our moxy, our hoot and our holler? Some are true, most are myths. Don't believe a word they try to say. Let me now share with you, my friends, my first hand recollections of the greatest team that ever was.

The team was very peculiar in that it consisted of four pairs of identical twins. Manning the corners were the Martino twins, Seanzo and Shaunzoid. Raised motherless by a travelling wellness tonic salseman. Seanzo had a canon of an arm, and the only one fit to handle his fireball throws from third base was his brother Shaunzoid, the first baseman. They were quite the batsmen, often knocking the cheap bovine hides off poorly made canadian baseballs.

Playing short stop and second base were the infamous Garcia-Rejon-Gaubeca-Naylor brothers. Talented mariachis, wanted in their homeland of Mexico for countless robberies. As you may have guessed it, no one could steal bases as well as they. I can recall many instances of their ghostlike theivery. All the rival pitchers in the league feared their bean-fuelled speed.

In the outfield were the Firlotteskys. Immigrants from Franz Joseph Land. One was named Nicola, and the other had no name that I can recall. He was a mischievous little fellow, always with a guilty grin on his mug, eyeing the dames with a randy little smile and half moon eyes. Mumbling strange things to himself. The pair were by far the best ball-shaggers in the league.

The last set of twins were the Vannicocacolas. Adamo and Keacho. The greatest pitcher/catcher duo the world has ever known. Adamo's renown "rotting innards" ball would never cease to confound the opposing batsmen and would leave the players in the other dugout holding their noses in disbilief. Keacho never allowed a pass ball in his entire career. And altough he could catch for anyone, he prefered his brothers brand of distinct "stink" pitches.

Last but not least was our manager, the late great Daniel H. Dumfock. He was not a kind man, very short tempered, yelling expletives all day and night. Always misplacing his spectacles.

Finally, let us not forget yours truly: "Sockless" Simon Petrakos. I was the 9th player, no twin to speak of, but I made it onto the squad by sheer determination and blackmail.

With this legendary group of stout men, we played with all our hearts and wits. Endured tragic defeats and death defying victories. Rode on buses, buggies, steam trains and ocean liners, shining our balls all over the world. We were young and brash, foolhardy and phenomenal. Coarse and smooth. Round and right-angled.

Even now, one hundred years on, as I prepare to celebrate my 121st birthday, I can still smell the pine tar on the bats, the freshly mowed grass, the whisky and the wellness tonic. A single tear rolls down my cracked old baseball-mit of a face. If only it were possible to go back there, if only for a minute, to be young again, on the diamond, with no cares and the big warm sun shining down on our shoulders.

They truly were a ferrari that ran on jazz!

Does anyone one else smell burned toast?

-"Sockless" Simon Petrakos.