Thursday Morning Cupcheck - ‘Twas a Mark Fistric Christmas

by Todd Maternowski

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It's time to get into the Fistmas spirit.

Good morning, hockey fans! Here's hoping you're ready for some genuine holiday cheer. Last week we glanced furtively over our backs at hockey's dark side; this week --nothing but happiness and joy! Just as we did with our fallen friend Nick Hagman, it's time to celebrate a certain Very Special Dallas Star with a little Yuletide poem the whole family can enjoy!

'Twas a Mark Fistric Christmas, and all through the South

A couple of forwards were running their mouth

No one could stop them from entering our zone

They mocked us with that sarcastic Toronto tone.

"Bettman's a moron for pushing hockey this far,

This state is not even on hockey's radar

The move here, the lockout, and oh yes, the cap

Are your fault." They farted, and then took a nap.

We stood there dumbfounded, our mouths full agape

So quiet, you'd think someone'd joked about rape,

With no Hatcher, no Matty, no Shane Churla's fists,

'Someone to come save us' was on all Christmas lists.

When out on the ice there arose such a clatter,

We sprang to the glass to see what was the matter

Past empty seats I flew like The Flash,

Hoping to see a Star kicking some ass.

Enemy forwards were falling like snow

Their skulls piling up on the ice below

When, what to our wondering eyes should appear,

But a hunky young version of 80s Rob Deer.

A hulking defenseman! From our Christmas list!

I knew in a moment it must be St. Fist.

More rapid than bullets his knuckles they came,

And facing those forwards he called them by name.

"I'll dash you, ice dancer, you prancing young vixen,

Don't come at me, stupid, and say that you're fixin'

To skate on my ice! The nerve and the gall!

Now piss off, ya hosers! Piss off, y'all!"

Some forwards were weeping, some starting to cry

As they wondered just who the hell was this new guy

So into their own zone, these cowards they flew

But to their dismay, St. Fisty's there too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard some poor goof:

"We're safe over here, that slowpoke's too--oof!"

He tried to avoid it, but it was too late;

As up his poor yin-yang went St. Fisty's skate.

He was dressed in Stars colors, from his head to his foot

And his jersey the color of midnight and soot.

An Anaheim forward tried spearing his back,

But St. Ironhide Fistric just gave him a smack.

His eyes had a twinkle, his dimples were merry

His muscles --bulldozers that popped Canuck cherry

His huge concrete fists were drawn back like a bow,

As Calgary players fled far from his blow.

He littered the ice with his enemy's teeth

And hung their intestines like a Christmas wreath.

He had a broad face and an ironclad belly

And pounded some poor Oiler schmuck into jelly.

He was built like a tank, like an Arctic ice shelf

And I quaked when I saw him in spite of myself

His unblinking eyes and mastodon head

Gave off an air of Incarnate Dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work

And finished his check, then slammed into some jerk

He shoved Kessel's finger so far up his nose

That now when he plays they say "Man, that guy blows."

He skated to the bench, having played to the whistle

Having used his right fist like a guided missile

I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,

"Tell your mom that I left my watch in her last night!"

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