“Grind!” Mike Babcock yells.

Sweat drips down Jake Gardiners nose. As the longest serving defenceman on the Toronto Maple Leafs Jake is used to working hard. He puts his head down and pushes with a grunt. His mind wanders as his body works. He remembers a time, two years ago, when he was pushed just as hard, though for much less of a reason.

The Toronto Maple Leafs had lost to the Philadelphia Flyers the night before. Then coach Randy Carlyle had skated the team ragged. After practice most of the team had left the rink and returned to their lives. Not Jake. He stayed behind for duty and for loyalty and because he had no say in the matter.

Phil Kessel liked waffles after practice. He also liked ping-pong. On that day two years ago Phil had demanded that Dion Phaneuf, The Toronto Maple Leaf captain in those days, play him in a best of seven ping pong series. Jake had to hold Phil’s waffles. They played for hours. Any time the plate was nearly empty someone from the Toronto Maple Leaf cafeteria had appeared with more waffles, heavy with melted butter and syrup. Jake’s arms had burned. His legs had lost all feeling. The plate never wobbled.

“Eat shit, fuck face!” Phil shouted after every point he scored against Dion. “Time out.” He would say when he wanted a waffle. Phil would fork a full waffle into his mouth, bit several times, than swallow the wad. Then he would take a sip from the tub of hard lemonade he had set beside him.

“Let Jake go home.” Dion said more than once.

“I tell you what fuck face, beat me one game and he can go.” Phil winked at Jake. “Don’t worry Waffles, it’ll never happen. Hey, after I beat stupid over here why don’t you come and watch me bang a hooker. You can have seconds.” Jake opened his mouth to answer. “Shut up. Time in!” Phil loved catching Dion by surprise.

The captain was good. His reflexes were quick. He returned the ball with amazing power. Still, somehow, Phil always had his paddle in the the perfect spot every time. They would rally ferociously over a single point, sometimes for a half hour or more. Dion would win some, but Phil always came out on top. Finally, after midnight, the series had ended with the inevitable Kessel victory.

“Fuck you, you stupid piece of shit!” Phil yelled at Dion. “Oh god, you suck so bad. Great game, not! Fuck are you stupid.” Phil had grabbed a waffle and thrown it at Dion. The captain caught it, and ate it out of spite.

“Catch this!” Phil had said. He squeezed one of the larger pimples on his ample forehead. The white head exploded and sailed across the ping pong table. Dion tried to dodge but the load of skin oil had caught him squarely in the eye.

With impossible strength Dion had flung the table out of his way. With super human speed the captain rushed at Phil, grabbing him by the throat with one hand and lifting him off the ground. Face red, the captain had pulled his fist back, knuckles white with tension.

Phil had looked shocked, even scared, at first. As more time passed his sardonic smile had returned.

“Go ahead, smash my head in. I know you want to. Just one problem right. Who’s gonna score when I’m gone?”

Dion had smashed his fist into Phil’s gut then dropped him.

“I hardly even felt that.” Phil had laughed. “This guy is such an idiot over here. My gut is the source of my strength!” The laughter had taken on a maniacal tone.

“What the hell is this?!” Randy tripped over the upturned ping-pong table when he burst into the room. As usual the coach was too late to make a difference. His tumbler of rye had spilled all over his pants making it seem as if Randy had pissed himself.

“Aw” Phil had mocked. “Did little Randers have a wee-wee”

“Gimme a hand will ya Jake.” Dion had gone over to the coach and was trying to lift him. Randy was trying to stand himself which was making it more difficult.

Jake handed the plate of waffles to Phil without meeting his eye, then went over to help his captain and his coach.

“What the fuck do I want these for, losers?” Phil dropped the plate and left without another word.

As Jake and Dion cleaned Randy up and got him into a cab he never stopped mumbling.

“I hate that fat lazy prick, oh I want to hurt him, but I can’t can I? Oh no, no one can touch ugly old Phil. Oh I hate that ugly lazy prick. Pour me another round and I’ll tell you all about it.”

That had been then. Jake has seen his new coach drink, but he has never seen Mike Babcock drunk.

“Grind.” Mike shouts.

Jake, along with the rest of the Toronto Maple Leaf defence, works the handle of the four tonne, stainless steel, floor to ceiling meat grinder that is the pride of the Toronto Maple Leaf cafeteria. Mike brings it on most road trips.

“More eels!” Mike bellows.

The Toronto Maple Leaf forwards are standing around a 7500 gallon tank filled with eels. Each player holds a barbed spear and is working as quickly as they can, catching eels to pitch into the grinder. The task is hard enough that even with twenty guys they can barely keep up with the demand.

The two goalies probably have the hardest job. Using fifteen gallon buckets they are catching the ground up eel meat and running it over to the rest of the coaching staff who man the double sized waffle irons. The buckets fill fast. The players are out of breath. They never slow down.

“Don’t let that meat hit the floor!” Mike reminds his goalies.

After two hours Mike finally calls a halt. His coaches have worked hard, cooking twenty eel meat waffles for each player and setting a long table for the whole team to eat together.

“Alright men.” Mike addresses the group. “You worked hard today, I am proud of your effort, but lets not kid ourselves, the work is just beginning. Each of you has twenty eel meat waffles. The first three men to finish theirs get to eat five bonus waffles. The last three have to eat five punishment waffles. Everyone in the middle gets to clean the meat grinder. But first, we need to say a little prayer.”

The Toronto Maple Leafs all bow their heads. 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.”

Mike waits for three heart beats. “On you marks! Get set! Go!”

With a smile the head coach watches his team rise to the occasion of the eel meat waffle challenge. There is no better meat for testing a mans resolve than eel meat. Some start fast, cramming the greasy treats into their faces as fast as they can. Others pace themselves, taking measured bits. It does not matter to Mike how they get through the challenge, just that they do it as a team.