October 6 2015

Mike Babcock is far away from Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. He sits alone at a table for four, blending into the hustle and the bustle of The Olde Spaghetti Factory. A cold plate of meatball marinara sits beside a warm, flat beer. Instead of food, the coach is focused on an array of hockey cards spread out on the table in front of him. The cards are of his Leafs. His roster has been divided into forward groups, defensive pairs, a goalie tandem, and the extra skaters. Mike is totally absorbed in pondering his line up.

Without warning, and with a furious energy, Mike starts rearranging the combinations. He puts almost every card in a different place; even the extras are swapped around. At last Mike is left with the goalie cards. He places one on top of the other, switches them, and then switches them back. He does this several more times before leaving the cards side by side.

Turning away from the goalies, Mike looks hard at his defense. He picks up one card and holds it over the forward group. Indecision is not a quality of Mike’s, but he holds that card for a long moment, unsure of what his own instincts are telling him. Finally the card is returned to the defensive pairings where it began.

Mike is slowly swapping card positions now; tinkering with the possibilities and doing his best to balance hope with reality. The restaurant manager approaches and coughs to capture Mike’s attention.

“There is a gentleman who would like to buy you a bottle of wine. I told him you asked not to be disturbed, but he was very persuasive sir.”

“Bring the bottle and send this fellow over.” Mike says.

The restaurant manager returns with a bottle of red wine and Mike is surprised to see Michelle Therrien, the coach of the Montreal Canadiens, walking with him. The rival coach has a large grin on his face and is waving from half way across the restaurant like a small child who just spotted their table after getting lost on the way back from the restroom. Mike considers hiding his cards from Michelle but decides that they reveal nothing.

“Hello Michelle,” Mike says. The restaurant manager quickly leaves the bottle of wine on the table and bolts to the kitchen. He does not return with glasses. The entire restaurant seems to hold its breath. No one is sure what to expect from the two fate-made rivals.

Michelle sits down across from Mike. “I saw you here alone and wanted to say hello. I love this place.” He picks up the beer and sniffs it, then shrugs and takes a large swig. The whole restaurant relaxes once it is clear that the two can be civil, if not friendly, with each other.

“So, how are things?” Mike asks. “You excited to get’er going?”

“Oh yes. I hate the pre-season. My asshole team is already making me crazy. I need to get them into real games so I can yell at them and call them idiots. How about your guys, how’s it going?” Michelle is staring down at the cards.

“Oh, it’s going pretty good.” As Mike answers, Michelle reaches out to pick up one of the cards. He almost gets his slimy fingers on it but Mike is too fast. His right hand swats Michelle’s hand away. At the same time his left hand slaps Michelle hard in the face. “There are still a few kinks to work out. Nothing is perfect.” Michelle shakes off the slap and reaches instead for the meatball marinara, which Mike allows. “I’m still trying to find my mix. I’m thinking the game tomorrow will tell me a lot. I still don’t really know these guys. Not like you know your team.”

“I hate my team. Not my goalie, but the rest of them are just total pricks all the time. You know they only made Pacioretty the captain because he promised to bring strippers into the locker room. Idiots. And he will probably be hurt for half the year because he is softer than goat cheese. At least they didn’t give Gallagher the ‘C’. He is the worst.”

“What about P.K.? He is a heck of a rover, and a decent person from what I can tell.”

A large globule of marinara sauce drops from the corner of Michelle’s mouth onto his tie. He crams more pasta in and answers Mike with his mouth full and chewed food spraying. “P.K. is crazy. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he says. You know he only donated that ten million dollars so he wouldn’t have to visit the weird looking sickies anymore. Those were his exact words! And the music he plays; first Drake, now Allan! These aren’t bands, they’re names. I hate everything about him. I wish he would just play defense, but every time I ask him to, he tells me he doesn’t understand French and the whole team laughs.” Another full fork-load tries to get into Michelle’s mouth, but one meatball loses its grip and falls onto his lap.

“It can’t be all bad, at least you live in a beautiful city.” Mike hopes to brighten his colleague’s mood.

If anything Michelle seems more depressed as he answers“I hate Montreal. The city is falling apart. It smells like unwashed grandfather groin. The strippers are good, but that is it. Every driver in the city is a stupid asshole. And the whole place is crawling with hippies and buskers and smelly kids with mime degrees. I hate my life. I wish I could be you. Just for one day. What I wouldn’t do with your money.”

“It’s not about the money Michelle. The game is an ongoing legacy and we are guiding it right now. Our two teams are the heart and soul of this league. Winning in Toronto is going to be better than all the money in the world.”

“I’ll take the money.” Michelle answers. “Say would you mind telling your team to not run my goalie so hard. I need Carey if I want to win a game this year. Just go a little easy on him, you know.”

“No problem, and if you don’t mind could you ask your team to flop around and cry to the ref after every whistle. Our penalty kill is still a work in progress and I want to get some work in.”

A loud voice interrupts. “What the fuck is this whale cock inhaler doing here?” Lou Lamoriello stands over the two coaches, having approached the table unnoticed. Michelle holds out his hand to Lou. Lou holds up a fist as if to punch Michelle and says, “We gotta go Mike. Brendan and the gang are waiting in the car. Jeff O’Niell found us some Bluejay tickets, but we might have to rough some guys up to get ‘em.”

“Can I come?” Michelle asks.

“Of course you can’t come. Clean up your suit. You’re disgusting. Let’s go Mike.” Lou takes the bottle of wine and heads to the door.

Mike picks up his cards and gets ready to leave. “Nice talking to you Michelle. Good luck tomorrow.”

“You too, good luck.” Michelle says. He watches Mike leave then waves a waiter over and digs back into his scavenged meal.

Outside The Olde Spaghetti Factory, Mike finds Lou waiting with Brendan Shanahan, Mark Hunter, and Kyle Dubas waiting inside a Humvee limousine.

“Before we go anywhere we have to say it one time.” Mike says, taking a seat beside Brendan.

The five men bow their heads and after a moment of silence, they speak in unison as if the words were a spell. And maybe words do hold the power to create.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto. And please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”