I would sell my blood to be so fast on blades
I would turn to God to make the moves he makes
He skates three full twenties each game he plays
Throws his body purposely in the fray
He's the lowly goalie
Twice the guts, no glory
From a small french town in Manitoba
With a skate blade scar across his throat
Not a single bone he hasn't broke.
He's the biggest five foot six man on the team
He can swing his stick like a lightning rod.
With a quick left glove like the hand of God.
He can see through flesh, bone and forward screens
Has a seventh sense and a tractor beam
He's the lowly goalie
Twice the guts, no glory
He will end the game as goat or hero
No in-betweens, a king or zero
Hang the cup or blame upon his shoulders
On a lightweight frame as tough as boulders
He's the biggest five foot six man on the team
Checks his biorythms and ouija board
Says a silent prayer to his demon lord
Has a nervous tic just below his ear
Like a sleeping dog dreams of chasing deer
He's the lowly goalie
Twice the guts, no glory
Built a holy shrine to Johnny Bower
Lights a candle every witching hour
Hasn't changed his clothes since shutting out
The defending champs and there's no doubt
He will bunk alone this next trip out
He's the biggest five foot six man on the team
© Dan LaRocque 1997
I would sell my blood to be so fast on blades