The mighty Iggy takes a shot
Stolen shamelessly from the Mighty Casey at Bat by Ernest Thayer
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Calgary 20 that day:
The score stood three to one, with but one period more to play.
And then when Stajan wiffed his shot, and Glencross did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Iggy could get but a shot at that goal
We'd put up even money, now, with Iggy in the slot.
But Stajan shot before Iggy, as did also Jiri Hudler,
And the former was not a shooter and the latter was in a funk;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Iggy getting a chance.
But Brodie put the biscuit in, to the wonderment of all,
And Stajan, the much despis-ed, shot the puck in Bernier;s chest;
And when the ice mist had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Iggy in the slot and Bernier hugging the post.
Then from 19,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the ice,
For Iggy, mighty Iggy, was shifting his right leg.
There was ease in Iggy's manner as he drew back on his stick;
There was pride in Iggy's bearing and a scowl on Iggy's face
And when, responding to the screams, he dropped his shoulder in a fake,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Iggy in the slot.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he gripped his stick;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he deked out to his right.
Then while the writhing goalie leaning forward at his hips,
Defiance gleamed in Iggy's eye, a sneer curled Iggy's lip.
And now the vulcanized rubber disk was dancing on his stick,
And Iggy leaned down on his stick in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy defenceman let lose a single swear-
"That ain't my style," said Iggy. as he faked back to his left.
From the luxury seat, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Just shoot you fool" shouted someone in the stands;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Iggy raised his leg .
With a smile of Christian charity great Iggy's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He aimed carefully at the five hole and nearly made the puck fly off;
But Iggy was just faking it, the clock was winding down
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful glance from Iggy and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Iggy would hopefully score again.
The sneer is gone from Iggy's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He shifts the puck to forehand he has inches left to shoot.
And now Bernier's in Butterfly he reaches to poke check,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Iggy's shot
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The goal light flashes brightly, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Calgary - mighty Iggy's been shutout..
__________________
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Last edited by CaptainCrunch; 02-20-2013 at 11:00 PM.
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