There is a very special clock on the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf tower. A clock that does not tell what time of day it is, a clock that only counts up. It keeps a constant record of the passage of time. The clock has been with Toronto Maple Leaf organization since the beginning. It has always served the same purpose. It counts the seconds, minutes and hours since the Leafs last won The Cup.

“429,088:38:05” says the clock

Brendan Shanahan stares at the number as it climbs.

“429,088:38:06”

The clock used to be in the Toronto Maple Leafs general managers office but Lou Lamoriello had complained that the numbers had a strange glow that was giving him nightmares. Brendan had the clock moved to his own office before Lou could destroy it.

The clock had not always been digital, the old clock had been a monstrous contraption bursting with gears and superfluous springs. Somebody finally got around to an upgrade in the early nineties but synchronizing the two clocks had been such a concern that minor details like redundant power sources and external back-ups had been neglected. Kyle Dubas had figured out how to manage the transfer using his smart phone, and now the clock was humming along, keeping perfect time. Brendan even liked the glow.

“429,088:38:14”

Brendan stares at the clock. Hating it and loving it simutaneousely. Hating the constant reminder of so many years of failure. Loving the relentless increase in pressure. Every second weighs on the Toronto Maple Leafs president. He longs to push the button that will reset the clock to zero. That dream sits like a warm meal in the belly of his imagination. Brendan thinks back to his own time with The Cup. Try as he might he cannot convince himself that the memories look better in blue and white. The past was glorious. The glory has past. The future is where the brightness lies.

“429,088:38:17”

Still, so much was uncertain. So many variables would irrevocable alter the course of his beloved Leafs. Brendan whispers a prayer under his breath.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing me here to Toronto, and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

The habit is a comfort to him even though he knows free agent signings, much like league expansion, are never certain until the deal is signed. For a second the draft lottery coalesces in Brendan’s conscious mind but he dismisses it with a will. Such a massive roll of the dice makes his hackles quiver. Whatever happens will be how it happens. All control is an illusion. There is no power that is not granted. Especially the power of fate.

“429.088:38:24”

Brendan breathes and thinks about positive things. He thinks about Mike Babcock. He thinks about twelve chances for the brilliance of Mark Hunter to draft a gem. He thinks about minor league playoffs and the value of experience. He thinks about one hundred years of proud tradition resting on his shoulders. It is with honest and well deserved pride that Brendan wears the title of Toronto Maple Leaf president. With his team and his plan in place anything is possible.

“429,088:38:29”

A fly buzzes past Brendan’s ear. He recognizes this fly. He has seen it buzzing around all year. Until now he had been too preoccupied with running the Leafs to take care of it. Now the season is done. Brendan tracks the fly as it zips around his office looking for a place to land.

It finally comes to rest on the clock. With careful ease Brendan pulls a throwing dagger from the lining of his suit. Faster than thought he lets the weapon loose. His aim is true. There is a satisfying hum as the dagger slices through the air. The fly notices the projectile in time to realize it has no hope. Still, it tries to take off. Too slow, the fly is cut in ha