Twig and tape. A stick and the roll you fix it with, and if you knew that before you read this sentence, you already know what this is.
Somebody named a brewery after it. TWIG & TAPE BREWING CO., est. 1974. Sauce served cold. The barn, late ice only. A beer you can't buy, from a company that doesn't exist, drawn the way a label actually was in 1974: two flat spot inks, a keyline frame, banner bands top and bottom, a heavy condensed serif, hop sprigs with a pair of sticks crossed in behind. Sauce is a pass. Sauce is also what's in the room afterward. Nobody's going to explain that on the front of a sweatshirt.
Thick and warm, honest about where it's going to live, which is a cold barn at ten at night, with ink that sits in the fabric rather than on top of it, offered in a range of deep, dark colorways.
Captains: the brewery is the team name. That's the whole trick, and it's why this is the one the bench will actually wear. It also lands at Christmas, mid-season, when he's in it deepest.
If you have to ask what sauce is, this one isn't for you. No hard feelings.
