The city of Toronto holds it breath in anticipation of the upcoming hockey season. It is the centennial season of the Toronto Maple Leafs and it will be a truly marvellous event. With a hundred years of glorious, and less good, history behind them Leafs Nation feels hopeful. It is a tangible hope. Gone are the fantastical dreams of miracle runs and every Leaf having the year of his life. Instead there is a force surging, building, promising a potent, and oh so entertaining future. With so many questions to be answered on the ice, Leafs Nation may be excused their restlessness. Yet even those stupid few in Toronto who do not love their Leafs can feel a strange sort of a feeling. Like a little pulse, beating through the city.

A push and a pull flow irresistible through the streets. Rubbish spirals about in small eddies created by the architecture of the urban sprawl. The pattern repeats every few seconds. Waves reaching out to topple all they can reach then receding, bringing back all they can carry. Most of the cities inhabitants go on with their day, adapting to the new circumstance and putting it from their mind. The rest complain for affect, effecting nothing.

From the roof of Toronto Maple Leaf tower, Brendan Shanahan and Mike Babcock observe the phenomenon’s source. Looking down at the forest surrounding the tower, they watch as the trees are all seemingly sucked toward a single point and then blown out away from that same point. The trees sway with a slow rhythm, in and out, in and out. As the trees move the men are buffeted by the strength of the blow. They struggle to keep their footing as if the roof of the tower were the deck of an old sailing ship tossed about by an angry sea.

Mike looks through a telescope he has set up on a tripod. He stands back after a moment and smiles. Brendan Looks through the telescope for longer than Mike. When he steps back he shakes his head, speechless.

Mike steps up to the telescope.

“What’cha looking at queermo’s” It is Lou Lamoriello approaching with a large joint in one hand and a pint glass of dark liquor in the other. As Lou approaches, the cherry of his joint is blown right off. “What the splooj was that?” He yells.

“Check it out.” Says Brendan, pointing at the telescope.

Lou steps up and looks through.  A young man stands in a small clearing on one foot. He is still yet sweat is dripping down his body. The tall grasses at his feet are pulled up with every inhale, and blown flat with every exhale. Lou stares, not able to believe that a single body could contain that much unharnessed power. At last he steps away from the telescope.

“Is that really Aust…” Lou begins to speak but Mike presses a finger against the GM’s lips and shakes his head.

“SSSHHHHH” The coach whispers his hush. “Let’s just not talk about it.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Lou says. “Brendan, please, what is this crap? Last year I have to pray every day for some mook who doesn’t even come here, now I can’t even say Aust…” Again Mike presses a finger to Lou’s lips and shakes his head.

“You gotta let me fire this guy already Brendan. Please, just one time then I’ll never fire another coach again as long as I live.”

“How long would that be?” Mike asks. “I would guess about a month. Not exactly a long term commitment to self improvement Lou.”

Lou is just about to tell Mike to go fuck himself when his pants start to buzz.

“Damn.” Says Lou pulling his new iPhone from his pocket. “Hello? Don’t even start. Are you kidding me? Dick tickling ass wart! Stop calling me about this chicken shit, bullshit, nonsense. I can’t help you. Little immaculate zygote Jesus couldn’t help you. Leave me alone” Lou throws his iPhone down and stomps on it several times voiding the warranty.

Brendan stares at his GM.

 

 

“It’s Doug Wilson.” Lou finally admits.

Brendan is surprised. The Sharks GM never got Lou so lathered during some pretty long negotiations during last years trade deadline. Lou had always seemed to be able to coax his rival into seeing things the Lamoriello way. Knowing better than to demand Lou speak, Brendan waits.

“He just keeps calling me.” Lou seems to shrink as he tells his story. “Calling and calling. Does he want to talk about a deal? ‘Sure’ he says. But first he wants to know about a shirt. A fucking shirt!” Lou takes a long sip from his glass. “Logan Couture lost his favourite shirt and a stupid floppy hat in the Kawarthas. Some tattooed asshole stole it from him after he tipped his canoe. What the shit am I supposed to do? I keep telling Dougie I can’t just go around taking shirts from people but he keeps calling and calling. I just want the calls to stop. That’s the problem with those things” Lou gestures at the broken phone. “People can always reach you.”

 

“What if we buy Logan a new shirt?” Brendan asks.

“It’s the principal of the thing Brendan. You don’t just go and hand a man a new shirt. If his shirt is stolen off his back he better go and get the fucking thing. That’s how I was taught. Of course my family is from the old country.”

“Well we have to do something.” Brendan is adamant. There is no reason for competitors to abandon civility. “Why don’t you send Logan a gift card to a nice store.”

“The same reason I never pay for a hookers cab fare Brendan. Principals.” Lou answers.

“I’ll tell you what to do.” Mike interjects.”Go and talk to Logan. Find out about this little canoe trip in the Kawarthas. Beautiful region, gorgeous lakes, just gorgeous. Get Logan to draw his route on a map. Follow the route until you find a tattooed asshole, and get the boys shirt. Then trade it to Doug for a pick.”

Lou ponders the coaches plan for a full minute before speaking. “That is actually a really good plan weirdo. Brendan I need a map of the Kawarthas. Mike, why don’t you get lost for the rest of the day. I’m sick of looking at you.”

“I was here first Lou.” Mike answers and looks into the telescope.