Iron Orr Traded to DarkSide for La Package and Slava

12/22/2009

Trenton, MI - 'Twas the Friday Night before Christmas when all through the rink not a creature was stirring, not even Stinky Matt.

The hockey socks we hung by the lockers with care, in hopes that Goalie Gump soon would be there.

The players were huddled all close in their locker rooms,

While visions of Slava Cups danced in their heads.

And Dano in his helmet, and I in my skates,

Had just settled our brains for a long, Friday Night skate.

When out on the rink there rose such a clatter,

Rocket sprang from the locker room to see what was the matter.

Away to the ice he flew like the Flash,

Tore down the left wing and threw up in the corner.

The hair on the man-breast of the new fallen chest,

Gave the lustre of mid-life to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature Phat Ivan, and eight tiny LiteSiders.

With a little old wood stick, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment Phat Ivan was a prick.

More rapid than eagles his skaters they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

Now Doctor! now Big D! now Package! and Vunderkindt!

On Cutler! On, Espo! on Dano and Batman!

To the front of the net! To the top of the circle!

Now skate away! skate away! skate away all!

As dry snowflakes that before the wild blizzard fly,

When Slava meet with Wojo, mount to the thigh.

So up to the goal-mouth the skaters they flew,

With the stick full of puck, and Tool Time too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the speaker

The boasting and jawing of each LiteSide deaker.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the ice Boss came, with a bound.

He was dressed in all Dark, from his head to his foot.

And his uniform was adorned with ice shavings and blood.

A bundle of Wins he had claimed on the ice,

And he looked like a hockey player, and not very nice.

His eyes-how they pierced! His jowls, how scary!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up in a scowl,

And the beard on his chin was gray as Domi's trowel.

Then "clang" off the pipe, he gnashed tight his teeth,

And the sound of the post rang in his head like a beat.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old player,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A flash of his stick and a twist of his skate,

Soon gave me to know I had got over too late.

With time running out, he went straight to the net,

And filled it up quickly, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the ice he strode.

He sprang to his bench, to his team gave a whistle,

And to the parking lot they all flew for a beer and a dog.

But I heard him exclaim, before he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore