Fistric: Shhh, lets use our library voice to resolve our difficulties. |
I especially remember one play against Fistric, when I was the lone defender back on a one on one. First off, let me tell you, he's listed at 6'2, 232 pounds of pure meathead, and for a big guy he moves very fast on his feet. Even though he was the largest guy on either team, he was likely one of the three fastest players on either side (we did have a couple of midget, sonic-the-hedgehog types on our bench). The combination of his speed and power made him something of a freight train by Div 8 standards.
He picked up a loose ball around the blue line and powered into our zone on his backhand, driving me backwards towards my own goalie. I think both teams were changing, so it was a strangely calm moment: the players on both sides were situation-stunned by the knowledge that no matter how fast they moved, whatever happened on the one on one they could not affect. It was man on man, one on one, two players on a stage - bright lights, big crowd.
It was John, the 5'11, 205 pound software developer versus Mark "Motherfucking" Fistric, part ballistic missile, part steel-bound wagon filled with the entrails and limbs of hockey players he had dismembered during his tough-as-nails warpath to the NHL. Part of my mental makeup is a healthy dose of competitive fire, so shit like that really doesn't intimidate me. I'm the kind of guy that really revels in being put out of my depth so that I can see where I match up. Like a small buck, I want to lock horns with the big buck to see where I am in the overall hierarchy of... bucks.
So there he was, this professional hockey player, cutting in on his backhand, goggles down as he prepared to stick-handle around me. I planted both my feet, and while saying a prayer (I'm not religious) I delivered the most thunderous, Earth-rattling shoulder check of my entire life directly to the center of his muscled mass.
I laid out Mark Fistric; laid him out on his ass, a meaty thump of bone on sternum. It was like a huge gong rung in a deep place, signalling a period of mourning. I was one with god; an exalted warrior, a destroyer, a clenched fist of victory.
And then I woke up in front of the gates of heaven, God looking down on me:
God: Welcome to heaven, my son.
Me: God... How did I die?
God: You attempted to body check Mark Fistric on a one on one during a division 8 ball hockey game. You died four times before you hit the ground.
Back in the real world, Fistric had scored, the goalie was his ass, and I was slumped over, half in the goal. I think I apologized to my goalie for getting owned on the one-on-one.
So, No, I really didn't lay out Fistric. It would have been cool, that's for sure; what actually happened is he used his huge fucking zepplin mass to push me almost on top of my goalie, and the with me draped all over him, Fistric executed a spin-o-rama in the crease (essentially walking through me) and used his reach to hook the ball around the goalies outstretched right leg. Normally guys that big in ball hockey can't execute 360's on the move with a defender draped on their back.
Before the game was over both teams had amassed 160 penalty minutes, Including nine 10 minute misconducts. We got shelled 8-0, but we didn't go down without a fight. At one point one of our guys challenged Fistric to a fight. Fistric replied with something like (and I'm paraphrasing): "Sure, I'll fight you. But I do this for a living, and I'm going to put you in the hospital."
Ah, good old Canada. They only place where you can get death threats from a professional hockey player in the middle of your division 8 ball hockey game.