By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
"I decided to take physical limitations out of the equation," Turco says.
The results are predictably tantalizing. Turco helped the Stars to an 8-1 start, best in team history, and through the first month is playing like an NHL MVP. Stop me if you've heard this one before: The more Turco succeeds in the present, the more his critics will construe past results as a precursor to future failures.
Has Turco finally figured out how to be Ed Belfour (without the surly isolationism and Mansion rants)? Or will he again deteriorate into Marty Jerko (Dallas' biggest tease this side of The Men's Club)?
"Nothing I can say matters," Turco says, finishing off the last chunk of sweet-and-sour chicken. "It's only what I can do on the ice. My team believes in me, and I believe in myself. I want to give these guys and our fans a championship. It's what drives me. After what we've all been through, I think we'll be able to appreciate it even more."
Saving his best for last, Turco wipes his hands and suddenly morphs into David Blaine. His lunch devoured and our doubts diluted, he casually unwraps and snaps open his fortune cookie.
Deadpans Turco as he hands over the slip of paper, "See for yourself."
Any doubts you have about yourself will disappear early this month.
So, you still wanna piece of Marty Turco?