As the most beloved brand in hockey, the Toronto Maple Leafs have many obligations to their fans. One of these obligations is media availability. Today the press are waiting to speak to Mike Babcock, the head coach of the team. Hundreds of sweaty journalists are corralled before a podium on a high stage. Only a reinforced chain-link fence keeps the throng from spreading onto the stage itself. The media is currently calm, savouring the anticipation of the moment.

Backstage the coach himself is not calm. Mike paces back and forth. He hates these scrums, hates having to justify his decisions to people who don’t understand the will and the vision it takes to build something great. Unable to delay any longer the coach says a quick 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.”

Stepping out onto the stage Mike is staggered by the stench coming off the greasy mass of unwashed humanity that clamours in front of him.

High above the stage, Lou Lamoriello laughs. “Ha, he looks like he just ate a shit berry.” Lou is sitting on the catwalk constructed over the stage. Brendan Shanahan and Kyle Dubas sit with him keeping a watch on the crowd.

“Be quiet,” says Brendan. “It’s about to start.”

The media are getting restless. A low snarl has started to reverberate throughout the crowd. Suddenly the journalists all snap to attention as Steve Keogh, the Toronto Maple Leafs director of media relations, walks onto the stage. Steve looks out over the crowd briefly and then pulls a cordless microphone from his pocket. The media all lock hungry eyes on it. Steve wastes no time in hurling the mike over the fence and into the throng. Chaos erupts from the crowd as Steve leaves the stage.

Mike watches patiently as the mob boils in a frenzy of violent madness. At last one journalist pulls away from the pack with the microphone. A surprisingly respectful hush falls on the crowd as the journalist asks his question.

“Why are you coaching this team to go for wins when everyone knows that you are not going to win the Cup this year? Shouldn’t you be trying to lose so that the team can have a higher draft pick?”

“Take him out.” Brendan says from above. Kyle had been aiming his Toronto Maple Leaf sniper rifle at the journalist from the moment he emerged with the mic and he takes the shot. The silenced round hits the journalist directly in the heart killing him instantly. Mike answers the question as the press scramble over the corpse to grab at the microphone.

“Look, I don’t think about draft position. I want to pick thirtieth every year because that means we won it all. Now, you say we can’t win the Cup with this team, I say we take it one day at a time and we try to win the next game coming up. Maybe this team isn’t the best team in the league on paper, you would know that better than me. I don’t watch the paper, I watch the ice. I see a team that competes, that wants to work real hard for each other and I’m really proud of this group.”

Another journalist emerges from the pack holding the microphone high in triumph before asking her question. “How can Jonathan Bernier get his game back into shape if he is only playing one game out of a dozen?”

“Fire.” Brendan says, looking down on the crowd.

Another perfect shot takes down the journalist and again the press go into a frenzy as each reporter tries to get control of the mic.

“I don’t know if your math is right.” Mike answers, not caring that the person who asked the question is dead. “I don’t look back and count games played, I pick the guy I think will give the team the best chance to win that night. As far as Bernie is concerned, he just needs to keep being a pro. That means work hard and wait for your opportunity. That’s the great thing about professional sport, and one of the hardest things too, you never know when you’ll get your chance, you just have to be as ready as possible when in comes. That’s true for goalies, defence, forwards, even coaches. This is the best league in the world. It’s not easy to make your living in it and no one can take their opportunity for granted. Period. Is that it?” As Mike looks out over the mob no reporter has taken control of the microphone yet. He waits for a heart beat. “Okay, thanks.” And with that the coach turns and leaves the stage without looking back.

“Uh-oh” Kyle says, looking through his sniper sight as a reporter finally takes the mic.

“Drop him.” Says Brendan, but he is too late.

Kyle fires and the reporter drops but not before the media notice that the coach is gone. The microphone falls, unnoticed, to the floor. A low growl emerges from the mob, a growl that increases in volume until it is a roar. The reporters all rush at the fence and start to shake it furiously.

Brendan grabs his nearby walkie-talkie. “Go Leafs! Go!” He says with urgency.

Several Toronto Maple Leafs step out from behind the stage. The players, all wearing Toronto Maple Leaf riot gear, are armed with Toronto Maple Leaf assault rifles. With a robotic precision the Leafs spread out along the stage and open fire into the throng. The media recoil for a moment, then their rage intensifies and they rush the fence again.

The Leafs mow down dozens of raging reporters. From his perch above, Kyle snipes at the largest and most aggressive of the media. Beside him Lou laughs with glee as he lobs grenades into the throng. The GM had struggled with the sack full of explosives on the way to his perch but it was all worth it as he watches body parts get blasted in every direction. Soon the battle is over as the survivors in the mob flee. All that is left of the media is a steaming bloody pile of body parts.

Tyler Bozak raises his rifle and bellows in triumph. “Toronto Maple Leafs!”

“Hoo-ah!” The other players bellow in answer.

Suddenly the heap of corpses shudders. The Leafs all train their rifles on the pile as a sickly groan emanates from all around them. The lights flicker for a moment. Smoke rises from the center of the room. Thicker and thicker it swirls around and around, forming a small funnel cloud.

“Stay focused.” Brendan Shanahan says over his walkie-talkie.

“That’s what it’s all about.” Nazem Kadri’s voice is as cool as ever as he replies. The Leafs keep their rifles steady as they watch with growing concern as reality takes a backseat and horror is born from the corpses of the dead.

From within the smoky twister a massive arm reaches out. It is a thing of blood and bone, grinning skulls form the elbow, shattered femurs make sharp claws at the end of long fingers that smack wetly onto the floor. Another arm emerges, and with it a head. The thing has one bulbous eye, the split halves of several rib cages serve as jagged teeth in its hideous mouth. The bloated media corpse beast screams a piercing cry recalling the death knell of every body that is its body.

The Toronto Maple Leafs open fire.

“That’s huge!” Says Jake Gardiner.

The creature soaks up the bullet fire as if it were a gentle breeze. Its arms push against the floor and the horrific media corpse beast pulls itself out of the nightmare ether into the physical world.

Kyle fires round after round into the things one eye, piercing it each time, but the monster does not seem to notice. Lou pulls the pin on one grenade than hurls the entire sack into the repulsive media corpse beasts mouth. The monster swallows and a second later the entire lower half of it explodes showering the Leafs in blood and viscera.

Still intact, the head, shoulders, and arms of the wounded media corpse beast scurries toward the stage.

“Just gotta keep shooting!” James van Riemsdyk yells.

The terrifying media corpse beast lashes out with one arm, reaching over the fence to smash into the stage with an earth shaking force. The Leafs dive out of the way and scramble beyond the reach of those hideous claws.

“Keep it going!” Shawn Matthias’s voice rings out above the chaos. The Leafs take aim at the head and pour fire into it from either side of the room. Kyle adds to the assault, as does Lou, who immediately regrets wasting all his grenades  as he pulls out his 9mm pistol. Brendan has finally gotten his Toronto Maple Leaf proto-nuclear devastator cannon primed and he braces himself against a railing as he shouts at the monster.

“Simmons!!!”

The filthy media corpse beast looks up at the president and seems to shout back. “Shanahan!” But the cannon fires and every man in the room is overwhelmed by the power that envelopes the monster. An endless moment passes before senses begin to return. The burnt husk of the media corpse beast is still.

One Leaf takes off his riot helmet and approaches the thing. He puts his boot to the head which crumbles into an ashy heap. Grinning broadly James Reimer looks at his president. “We won.” He says.

Colorado Avalanche head coach Patrick Roy wobbles a little as he walks into the main entrance of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. The legendary net minder is impressed by the grandeur of the building, but does his drunken best to hide the feeling as he greets his old friend Brendan Shanahan.

“Shanny, p’tite queue, how’s it doing? O’sti!”

“Patrick, how are you?” The two ‘Hall-of-Famers’ shake hands and Brendan smiles as he and his one-time rival enter into the building.

“Tabarnak Shanny, I telled you again, call me Le Roy. Fait chier, it’s my nom, non?”

Brendan ignores Patrick’s vulgarity. “Is Joe coming?” Joe Sakic is the GM of the Colorado Avalanche. The Toronto Maple Leafs will play the Avalanche this evening.

“Joe is having his game day nap. He said he would come maybe to the peelers after for a little.”

“Oh. Is he doing all right?” Brendan’s concern is genuine. His old friend has been under a great deal of scrutiny with his Avalanche team struggling.

“He’s fine O’sti. We just needs the bigger pads for our goalies. Yours too, non? Is there somewhere for the drinks in this palace?”

Brendan laughs. “Patrick.”

“Le Roy.” Patrick interjects

“This is a place of business. Of course there’s a bar. Actually there are seventeen bars in the tower.” Brendan leads Patrick to the elevators. “Let’s go see Lou”

“Tabarnak.” Patrick says.

After a quick elevator ride the two step out onto the forty-first floor. Patrick looks around and spits. “You take me to an office, Shanny? Where are the naked women? Don’t hold out on me calice, I know you’re hiding them somewhere.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Patrick.” (Brendan knows exactly what Patrick is talking about. Find out more!)

“Le Roy.”

“Come on.” Brendan opens the door to Lou Lamoriello’s office and stops, stunned at what he sees. Patrick stumbles into Brendan’s back and both men stare dumbfounded.

Lou’s office is littered with baby toys, play-pens, jump-a-roo’s, and stuffed animals. The man himself sits at his desk cooing at a small bundle nestled in his arms. Delighted giggles come from this bundle and a tiny hand reaches out for Lou’s face.

“Lou, what’s going on?” Brendan has never seen Lou near a child and the change in the man is startling. Lou looks energized and playful, full of a vigour that is normally reserved for watching hockey.

“Brendan. Le Roy. Welcome. Come in and take a look at this beautiful little pooper.” Lou holds up the baby, which is indeed beautiful.

“Why do you have a baby Lou?” Brendan asks.

“I need a drink,” says Patrick.

“Oh, perfect.” says Lou. “Can you bring me over some rye Le Roy. We ran out just before you got here.”

Patrick walks over to the full service bar in Lou’s office and pours himself a gin and tequila. He downs his glass in one gulp and pours another before walking a bottle of rye over to Lou. “Here you go. Hey, do you want some Angel Dust?” Patrick asks.

“No thanks, and can you go be a degenerate scumbag over by the bar please. Little Louie doesn’t like the smell of you.”

Brendan has pulled out his phone and is texting rapidly. The baby is starting to fuss as Patrick retreats to the bar. Cooing and rocking the baby, Lou pours a glass of rye. He takes a small sip, then dips his pinkie finger into the drink. The finger is then planted into little Louie’s mouth. The baby sucks on the finger contentedly for a moment, then cries. Lou repeats the process.

Patrick laughs. “Look at that drunk p’tit chriss baby. He is a real hard, non?” Patrick snorts a line of blue powder right off the bar and then collapses onto the floor in a heap. As he falls, Kyle Dubas walks into the office. He takes in the scene for a moment, then looks to Brendan and says, “No babies have been reported missing, but my contacts in the PD will let me know immediately if a report gets filed.”

“You called the fuzz!?” Lou shouts as the baby in his arms cries prompting another rye soaked finger for sucking. “You made the baby angry.”

“Why do you have a baby Lou?” Brendan asks again.

Before Lou can answer Patrick shouts from the floor. “Whoooooo!!! I can feel the universe fucking my skull into the stars! Whooooo!” With his back flat on the floor Patrick churns his arms and legs as if he is running.

“Can you pick him up?” Brendan says to Kyle. As Kyle moves to comply, Patrick springs to his feet and starts doing jumping jacks.

“Gotta stay fresh,” says the legendary goalie. “Big game tonight. Gonna win. Gonna win.”

“How come Joe’s not with you?” Lou asks Patrick. “Is he still afraid of me?”

“He’s just having a nap. Gonna win. Gonna win.” Patrick is starting to sweat from his exercise but does not stop jacking it out.

“Have you had any talks with Joe, Lou?” Brendan asks. “I would hate to think we’re missing out on opportunities.”

“Nah, I never talked to him.” The baby is starting to squirm in Lou’s arms, no longer interested in the liquor. “I don’t think they were serious about moving Matt Duchene, and if they were, there’s no way we could get him without giving up a pick.”

“Is that right Patrick?”

“Le Roy, o’sti.  He has right it. We wants picks and players for Matty.” Patrick has stopped his jack and is now doing side lunges.

There is a knock at the door and Mike Babcock enters the office before anyone can answer. He kicks several toys out of his way as he strides toward Lou’s desk.

“Lou, I think I know what to do about Kadri. I am going to need six tigers and a parachute. And…” Mike notices Patrick. “What is the he doing here? Brendan, did you know he was here.”

“Patrick is my guest.” says Brendan.

“Le Roy.” says Patrick.

“Your guest!” Mike shouts.

The baby cries. “Keep it down,” says Lou as he rocks the baby and reaches into a desk drawer.

“Your guest?” Mike is doing his best to whisper but his voice is just too powerful to manage it. “He is the enemy until the game is over Brendan. The only reason he’s here is to steal game secrets. He’s trying to Belichick us.”

Patrick turns to the bar and snorts up more blue powder. As he turns back,his eyes widen and he leaps for cover behind the bar shouting, “Tabarnac de plotte sale!”

Brendan, Kyle and Mike all look to see what has scared him and find Lou dangling a small pistol in front of the baby.

“Holy shit Lou, you can’t give a gun to a baby!” Mike yells.

Lou looks up with a confused expression. “What’s the problem? It’s not loaded.” To demonstrate, Lou points the gun at the ceiling and squeezes the trigger. The gunfire surprises everyone and a whimper comes from behind the bar. “Oops.” Lou says as he pulls the clip from the gun. “Well it’s not like a baby can pull the trigger anyway.” Lou hands little Louie the gun, grip first and the tiny hands reach out and clasp onto the trigger. The bullet nearly takes Lou’s hand off. “Okay, so I was wrong. At least we know now, no guns for baby.” Lou takes the gun away from little Louie and hands him a fork.

“I really don’t like this.” Mike says. The head coach of the Toronto Maple Leafs moves away from the bar and beckons Brendan, Lou and Kyle to the far wall of the office. “You have to get rid of him Brendo. You can’t bring the enemy into your house before battle. Look, I got a ton of work to do before the game. Let’s just say it real quiet while he’s not  listening.”

The four men bow their heads and Lou almost takes a fork in the eye from the baby in his arms. 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 looks over to the bar and lets out a sigh of relief when he sees Patrick hasn’t emerged. “Get him out of here.” Mike says again, kicking a stuffed frog across the floor before he strides out of the office.

Making his way back to his desk, Lou smiles at the baby. “Who wants to fire a coach? Does little Louie want to fire a coach? Yes you do, yes you do want to fire a coach, precious little pooper.”

“Where did you get that baby Lou?” Brendan asks.

“Vive Le Roy!” Patrick shouts, leaping up from behind the bar. “You can never kill me father muckers!”

“Come on Brendan, get him out of here, he’s scaring little Louie.”

Kyle Dubas is searching Toronto Maple Leaf Tower for Lou Lamoriello. The GM has taken Kyle’s car keys and vanished. No one has seen Lou anywhere and Kyle’s imagination is beginning to run wild with a growing sense of urgency. Kyle’s search brings him to the seventh floor of the tower, the Toronto Maple Leaf Education through Recreation Center. The Leafs with head coach Mike Babcock are currently in one of the classrooms.

Kyle walks quietly to the back of the room as Mike lectures the team. Todays lesson is about reparing a cuckoo clock. Each Leaf has a clock infront of them and following Mike’s direction they are taking the clocks apart piece by piece. Kyle waits for over an hour before Mike finally wraps up the lesson.

“So don’t forget to mind your three G’s right. Clock repair is all about your grip, your grease and your gears. Steady grip, lots of grease, and pick the right gear. Pay attention to those details and it will all work out. Now, lets put these clocks back together and then we break for lunch.”

Mike waves for Kyle to follow him outside the classroom. Shutting the door behind him Kyle whispers so as not to disturb the Leafs.

“Have you seen Lou?”

“Yeah.” Mike says. “He was down here a little while ago talking to the players. It was right in the middle of my ‘Quiz Up’ time so I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on. He left with Matt Hunwick maybe fifteen minutes before you barged in.”

“That’s awesome Mike, thank you.” Catching Lou was like pinning an eel to a bar of soap but if he was with a player than he was as good as found. Every Leaf could be tracked by the Toronto Maple Leaf nano-bots that had been implanted in them on the first day of training camp to help monitor and track individual bio-rythms. Kyle turns to leave but Mike stops him with a hand on the shoulder.

“Will you just say it with me real quick here?” The coach whispers into Kyle’s ear. “I’ve been with the team all day and haven’t had a chance to yet.”

Kyle nods and bows his head and the coach does the same. After a moment of silence they whisper 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 lets out a sigh of relief. “I really needed that.” He says. “I love these players like my own sons but I would never want them to know I was praying like this. Especially after last night. They deserved that result. I know this team can win more games. But they need some help is all. All the heart on the world can’t win without skill to back it up.”

“Whooo!” A shout erupts from the classroom. Kyle follows Mike in to see what is happening. Richard Clune stands with his arms raised triumphantly while the clock in front of him cuckoos.

Mike pats Clune on the back. “You are really on a roll today. First in carpentry class and now this. I’m really proud of you.”

“Coming out of the woodwork,” Clune says, “I visualized this.”

“But how did you finish so fast?” Kyle asks

“I watched the triple G.” Clune answers.

“Well your concentration is excellent.” Mike says, patting the Leaf on the back once more.

“My mind is bullet proof.” Clune is justifiably satisfied with himself.

“You might as well go enjoy your lunch break.” Mike says. “We have music lessons at one o’clock.”

“I like the music.” Clune says as he turns to leave. Kyle blocks his way.

“Do you know what Lou wanted earlier?”

“With Lou Lamoriello you don’t ask questions.” Clune answers with a grin. Stepping around Kyle, he takes off at full sprint out of the class.

A chair falls over on the other side of the room. Dion Phaneuf is on his hands and knees under his desk. “Gotta find that little extra gear.” He says.

“Extra gear!” Mike rushes over to Dions desk. “None of those gears are extra!”

Kyle leaves the classroom and pulls out his phone. It takes the tracking program a moment to locate Matt Hunwick. Kyle is relieved to find he is still in the building, a few floors below in the Toronto Maple Leaf Cafeteria.

The cafeteria is beginning to fill up but in a quiet corner Lou Lamoriello sits facing Matt Hunwick reading from a book laying open on the table. As Kyle approaches he can hear Lou speaking with an odd, high pitched lilt in his voice.

“But screw your courage to the sticking-place and we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep.” Lou notices Kyle standing at the table. “What?”

“What are you doing Lou?”

“I’m practicing. I’m playing Lady Macbeth in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. It’s a play.”

“I’ve heard of it.” Kyle says. “And I don’t think you are supposed to say that name.”

“What, Macbeth? That’s what he said.” Lou points to Hunwick. Who shakes his head, embarrassed. “ I hate that stupid tradition. It’s like putting together a video tribute for an ex-girlfriend. ‘O I miss you. Remember how much fun we had together? Don’t you miss me too? Bullshit.”

Kyle looks blankly at Lou. “Huh?”

“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!” Lou yells.

“Okay. So why did you take Matt away from the group?”

“Huni is in a theatre troupe, Jeff O’Neill’s Bro’Dogs. He’s helping me with my lines.”

Kyle had heard of the troupe, but had not yet made it to a show. “You’re in Bro’Dogs?”

“They make good plays.” Hunwick answers with a shrug.

“How come you never told anyone?” Kyle is genuinely hurt a little.

“I’m kinda low key when it comes to that.” Hunwick says.

“He’s embarrased by you.” Lou barks. “Now focus. What do you think of my preformance.?”

“I haven’t thought a whole lot about it.” The Leaf says.

“I gotta work on my femininity though right.”

“Obviously.” Hunwick agrees.

Lou looks to Kyle.“Oh, Ass.” Lou calls every assistant GM in the NHL ass. It no longer bothers Kyle “I gotta deal for you to think about. Nylander and two first round draft picks for Corey Perry. Now, before you say no.”

“No.” Kyle interrupts.

“Fuck!” Lou Shouts. “This is bullshit. All I get to do is call guys up and send them down. Candy crunching ass! Let me trade something.”

“You can make trades Lou, just not that one. If you want I can run it by Brendan, but he will say no too.”

“Don’t bother. I know you’re right. I gotta get back to this.” Lou clears his throat and glances at his script. “Where to the rather shall his days hard journey soundly invite him. His two chambermaids shalst I wine and bangeth to convince, What?”

Hunwick is shaking his head. “The script.” The Leaf taps the book on the table.

Kyle leaves them to it. Walking all the way across the cafetteria to the elevators before remembering he forgot to get his keys back from Lou. When he turns back to the table Hunwick is alone.

Lou has vanished.

Lou Lamoriello sits in his office on the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. The entire space is hazy with smoke from the large joint Lou is puffing on. The pungent marijuana fumes wreath the GM’s head as he cradles a joint as big as a babies arm in both hands. An ashtray overflowing with the stubbed-out roaches of previous joints sits on his desk. Lou reaches out to press the intercom button on his phone and a large chunk of ash falls from the joint onto his lap.

“Nancy, it’s Lou. I need a large, thin-crust, pepperoni pizza. Also, can you rent a puppy for me to play with for about an hour. And I want pumpkin spice latte but instead of pumpkin spice put in a banana. And where the hell are my fancy stats from last night?”

The receptionist sighs loudly and waits a long time before answering. “My name is Nathan, Lou. Again, there is no Nancy at this desk. My name is Nathan. And I ordered your pizza five minutes ago.”

“Well that’s great Nancy, what about the rest?”

Another loud, long sigh precedes the response. “Puppies are not a rentable item, I will have another latte with a banana in it made immediately, and all the game stats are in the folder on your desk labelled ‘Analytics.’ Was that all Lou?”

Lou does not answer. He finds the folder underneath the ash tray and begins to look through it. Time passes while Lou sits in a smoky tableau. A new joint, as big as a babies arm, is fired up moments after the old joint is finished. Suddenly, without any warning, the door to the office is opened and in walk Brendan Shanahan, Mark Hunter, and Kyle Dubas.

“What are you doing Lou? The whole tower smells like dope.” Brendan does not look like a happy president.

“Close the door!” Lou barks.

Mark moves to close the door then makes his way over to the full service bar. He clatters around in the fridge then pops back up with two pints of chocolate milk. As Mark walks back to Brendan’s side, Kyle starts to cough. Mark hands one of the pints to Kyle and keeps the other for himself.

“Whats the problem? I’m just having my medicine. It’s the only thing that eases my bowels. Getting old is the worst.”

“You can’t do drugs at work, Lou.” Brendan says.

“Why not? I thought weed was legal now. Isn’t that why you voted in that pretty boy with the face and the hair. What’s his name? I can’t believe it, it’s Not wrong, um, it’s A fact, um um…”

“It’s Trudeau.” Kyle chimes in between gulps of sweet chocolatey cow nectar.

“Right, I can’t believe it, it’s Trudeau. Didn’t he legalize it? If I can’t sit here and get baked in my office to calm down my explosive diarrhea, then what the hell are we doing here? The politics in this country are so confusing and pointless.”

Mark walks over to Lou and takes the joint. He pulls long on it as he walks back to Brendan, then exhales into his chocolate milk, blowing bubbles that surface with a smoky pop. Mark hands the joint to Brendan who gently kisses it and takes just a little smoke in before he speaks.

“I don’t want you to suffer Lou, but do you have to smoke so much?” Brendan takes another pull before handing the joint to Kyle.

“But I hardly even had six joints today.” Lou whines.

“I think six joints a day is plenty Lou. In fact I am making a presidential decree. As a new club rule, only six joints may be smoked per day, in the office.”

Lou slumps in his chair. Kyle passes the joint back to him, but it doesn’t soften his pouty sulk-face. “Six joints starting now.” Lou mumbles under his breath between puffs. Brendan hears him, but before he can correct the GM there is a knock at the door and Mike Babcock steps into the room without waiting for an answer.

“Smells pretty good in here boys.” Mike says. He takes an exaggerated sniff. “Out door crop, some kind of Purple Kush. Harvested somewhere south of Nelson B.C. I think. Grower uses a lot of coffee grounds in their fertilizer. That’s why the earthy undertone is so pronounced. I wish I had time for a session, but there is just too much to do. I had the team write essays on perseverance after the game last night, and before I start marking them I need to cross reference each guys ice-time to caloric intake ratio. The goalies are starting their ancient mythology course today, and we just got the compressor for the bouncy house fixed. Plus I need approval in the budget to get a team greenhouse started. I want each player to nurture a lily over the course of the season. It will help them learn patience and commitment.”

“No problem Mike.” Brendan says.

“Great. I gotta run. Let’s just say it quick.” Mike holds his hands together and bows his head. The other men do the same. 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 says, “Let me get just a little taste of that.” He runs over to Lou and takes the joint from his hands, spilling ash all over the GM. The coach takes an impossibly long drag. A full inch of massive joint is sucked up into Mike’s lungs. He passes the joint back and runs to the door. “I love out-door Kush.” he says, exhaling into the room before he leaves, slamming the door shut.

“God I hate that guy. He even juiced up the end.” Lou says, puffing on the joint despite the fresh coat of Babcock saliva. “Hey ass,” Lou is referring to Kyle. “These fancy stats you gave me suck. There isn’t even a percentage of shots against versus saves made.”

Kyle walks over and looks at Lou’s folder. “Save percentage is right here on the first page, and a more detailed breakdown of the numbers is right here in the section marked save percentage.” Kyle reaches out for the joint but Lou pulls it away.

“Never fuck with the cypher.” Lou says, holding the joint out to Mark, who takes it. “Another thing I can’t find is the player salary to ice time metric.”

“That is not a stat we track Lou.” Kyle says.

“Like I said, these stats suck. I don’t even know why I bother with them. Analytics shamalytics. You know how I tell which guys are playing good? I feel the heat coming off their ass cheeks. Fool proof system”

“We talked about that.” Brendan says, accepting the joint and taking a gentle little toke before passing it to Kyle. “The players don’t feel comfortable with your system Lou. That’s why you’re not allowed in the locker-room between periods anymore, remember.”

“Another thing I don’t understand,” Lou says. “How the hell can that Harpist guy just quit?”

“Harpist?” Brendan looks to Mark and Kyle who both shrug, as baffled as the president.

“You know. The loser. The ex-president or whatever you call it up here.”

“Harper? Are you talking about politics again?”

“I’m pretty sure his name is Harpist. Anyway, how can he just quit? He ran in the election right. He won some kind of chair. How can he just walk away from that?”

It is Kyle that answers. “Well I guess because his party got beaten pretty bad he decided he couldn’t be effective anymore.”

“What a bunch of bullshit. He only wants to be in the game if he’s in charge? That’s how a four year old plays. He got voted in because enough suckers still believe in his shit and want that shitty greedy view represented. Then he pulls some cowardly crotch punching garbage and bails on the morons without even giving a speech? He quit in an email! What a bitch. If I was one of the stupid lazy crack-addict slobs who voted for that guy I would be pissed.”

The intercom on Lou’s desk buzzes. “Your pizza is here Mr. Lamoriello.”

“Excellent. Send it in Nancy.”

The Toronto Maple Leaf Jumbo Jet soars high in the air. The team is more than half way through the eight minute flight from Toronto to Buffalo. Brendan Shanahan and Kyle Dubas sit listening to Lou Lamoriello. The GM is pacing back and forth, ranting about his cleaning service. The cause of his distress is the disposal of some precious old newspapers that were taken out with the trash.

“It’s like they never even looked at the dates or nothin! Why the hell would I keep newspapers from the eighties just so I could throw them away thirty years later? Morons. I am gonna fire them all. I am gonna fire them then hire them back so I can fire them again.” Lou shows no signs of winding down.

“Can we get back to work Lou?” Brendan asks.

“Work sure, yeah, no problem. I will just forget about my life’s passion getting tossed away like an ugly baby.” Lou almost gets rolling on another rant but Brendan cuts him off.

“What’s the update on Bozak?”

Lou sighs and sits down. “He’s still day to day. The problem is that he got all his pubes laser removed. Now his cup chafes his bare ball sack unmercifully. The trainers want him to use coconut oil on them but he doesn’t like the smell. They’re trying different ointments and lotions and hopefully they will have something worked out for tomorrow.”

“Do we call someone up?” Brendan asks after a moment of consideration.

“Please no.” Kyle chimes in before Lou can answer, earning him a death glare from the GM. “Don’t mess with the Marlies just yet. The team is off to a decent start, they are really beginning to gel as a group. I know we will have to do it eventually, but let’s not mess with the chemistry just yet. Not if we don’t need to.”

“No one cares about your stupid AHL chemistry.” Lou says. “Their only job is to wait for me to need them in the real show. If I want to mess with your fuckin’ chemistry then that’s what I’m gonna do. Ass!”

“So, no call-ups then.” Brendan says, ending the discussion. Lou expresses his disappointment with a loud fart. “Any news about Robidas?”

It is Kyle who answers. “No one has seen him since Thanksgiving. Our people tracked him to Quebec City, but they lost his trail in a small underground hippie commune.”

“And still no clues as to why he left?” Brendan asks.

“Nothing new. All anyone remembers him saying is “I found her! She’s here! She’s here!” We searched his apartment and found lots of books about aliens, sasquatch and the Loch Ness monster, but how it all fits together is still a mystery.”

“We have to find him.” Brendan says. “Even if he can’t keep up on the ice anymore, he is a great example of perseverance. He is as solid a pro as you are ever going to find, but he can only be a role model if he is on the team.”

“Screw him.” Lou says. “You want a role model of perseverance, how about Mike Richards. I got his agent to agree in principal to a four year deal for only three million a season. I just gotta figure out how to use my scan-o-faxamatic machine so I can send the papers to him.”

“No” Brendan says.

“Come on Brendan. Please let me sign him. We need some more veterans. We need proven winners. Give him a chance. It’s like in that Rob Marley song.”

“Bob Marley?” Kyle asks. “Redemption Song?”

“I am pretty sure it’s Rob, ass. And the song I was thinking of was Buffalo Soldier.” Lou starts to sing “Buffalo soldier, with a heart that’s American, Oy oy oy! Oy oy oy oy! Oy oy oy oy oy oy oy oy!”

“But Richards is white.” Kyle points out.

“So you’re a racist now Kyle? I am so ashamed of you.”

Before the two can get stuck in a musical debate Brendan interrupts. “You can sign him for the rest of this season at the league minimum, nothing more” Before Lou can object he changes the subject. “How is Mark doing?” Mark Hunter, the head scout for the Toronto Maple Leafs, has been away scouring the planet for hidden talent for over two weeks now and Brendan has missed his quiet optimism and endless sense of humour.

Kyle checks his email before answering. “He is in Chile. There is a goaltending Llama he wants to check out.”

“How the fuck are we gonna keep a Llama clean shaven?” Lou asks.

“Lets find out if he can play first Lou, then worry about enforcing team rules.” Brendan says. Lou looks gut punched but Brendan’s phone starts to ring before He can answer. Brendan puts the call on speaker. “Hello.”

“Hello Brendan, it’s Dean” Dean Lombardi is the GM of the LA Kings. “Is Lou around?”

“He’s here.” Passing the phone over to Lou, Brendan says, “You really need a cell phone Lou.”

“I don’t trust anything I can’t drop into the toilet. What do you want Deano?”

“I’m calling to hook you up Lou. I know you need some veteran talent up front. I need a shake up in my locker room. I am willing to part with Gaborik and all I will need back is Gardiner and a pick.”

Brendan and Kyle are both shaking their heads. Lou winks at them. “Okay Deano, I like it, but how about instead of Gaborik you give us Carter and instead of Gardiner and a pick I will give you Robidas and Polak”

“Come on Lou, be reasonable.” Dean fails to hide his desperation. “Gaborik for Gardiner staight up, no pick. Come on Lou.”

“Fine, I’ll take Gaborik, but only if you throw in Toffoli as well. And you can have Polak and Percy.”

“What! That’s not fair Lou.”

“You got a free buyout you bastard, you want to talk about fair?”

“It’s not fair.” The rival GM sounds lost and Lou struggles to keep the glee from his voice.

“It’s about as fair as firing a guy who needs your help then taking out a full page add in the paper about how you wanted to help him but you couldn’t because he let you down.” Dean sighs and the weight of the world is carried in the sound. “Think it over dick cheese. Go fuck yourself and have a nice day.” Lou slams down Brendans phone on his arm rest, cracking the screen. “Oops, how do I hang up on this thing?”

As Brendan takes his phone back, Mike Babcock comes up to the group. The coach is wearing a parachute and jump goggles.

“Hey guys, I’m gonna drop into Buffalo to get a head start on preparations. I just want to say it one time with you all before I go.”

The coach bows his head and the three other men do the same. 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 turns to the exit. “See you on the ground!” He shouts as he lifts the handle, opening the door. Mike leaps out into the blue as Kyle, and Lou hold on for dear life. Brendan slowly approaches the open door, fighting against the powerful force seeking to suck him out of the plane. The president summons all his strength as he reaches out to grab the door and, with an effort of will greater than any he has ever known, he slams the door shut.

“Please let me fire him.” Lou says, catching his breath.

“Shabalabalop! Boom! Tummy! Pop!”

Dion Phaneuf, the captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs and so much more, wakes with a start. Something is wrong, and the wrongness has disturbed his slumber. No sights or sounds intrude on the dark of his room. The problem exists outside our everyday reality.  Dion reaches out with his extra-planar senses.

As soon as his astral self leaves the physical realm, The Captain is bombarded with an aching hunger. A grotesque appetite has soaked into the Thirteenth Dimension and Dion knows that what this force seeks to consume is him.

“Shabalabalop! Boom! Tummy! Pop!”

The rhyme might almost be cute except it repeats incessantly in The Captain’s imagination. If his psychic powers were as dull as a human’s, Dion could have been overwhelmed.

The Captain begins to absorb the rhyme. “Shabalabalop! Boom! Tummy! Pop!” The words become a part of him; he is a part of the words. Ever so slowly The Captain lets go. Dion is no longer under psychic attack because he is the psychic attack. Once he is immersed in the pulsing flow of power, he is able to feel for the source of it.

As he closes in on the source the intensity of the rhyme increases. “Shabalabalop! Boom! Tummy! Pop!” The words repeat one last time, and then there is silence.

The Captain’s astral self floats in a void. Below him he can see a swirling, pulsing, sparkling ball of force, glowing contentedly. The weaver of the ritual does not sense their targets escape. Fool. A tiny red ribbon flows into that ball. Power trickles along the ribbon feeding psychic force into it from afar. Dion follows this ribbon, his imagination sending him hurtling though space and time at speeds that would tear his physical body apart.

Dion does not notice the obstacle until he is upon it. Stopping suddenly, he narrowly avoids a crash and is confronted by an image of revolting majesty. A human figure, more gut than man, stands before him. At first The Captain thinks it is a statue but it moves its head to look at him. The thing’s skin moves as though covered by insects. Only when it smiles does Dion realize it is constructed entirely of hotdogs which writhe and squirm to stick together.

“Papa is hungry.” The foetid reek of processed and digested beef-like products cradles its every word. “Papa wants to play.” The Captain knows better than to answer; to do so would be to welcome madness. “Papa misses you. Papa is going to beat you. Papa will always beat you” The Captain isn’t listening anymore. He springs forward and attacks the thing before it can even register surprise. Burnt hotdogs scatter into the ether of the Thirteenth Dimension.

Dion continues to follow the ribbon. No more defenses rise up against him. The trail of power leads Dion to a circle spinning inside a circle spinning inside a circle; three psychics bonded in the ritual.

Stepping from the Thirteenth Dimension into our Third Dimension is simple as an astral projection. The Captain knows exactly where he is.  Three hooded figures stand facing each other in a clearing high up Mount Washington. Below them is the Monongahela River and behind that, the city of Pittsburgh glittering in the night.

If the three fools understand what they have started no one can say. Once begun, this ritual will demand their lives, as final agonizing payment. It is with mercy that The Captain breaks their psychic link, killing them instantly.

How Phil found three people to conduct such a ritual is not as interesting to Dion as why he would go to the trouble, but as his astral form returns to his physical body he decides he does not care.

Kessel is waiting. The Captain is ready.

Lou Lamoriello wakes with a start. Toronto Maple Leaf Manor is quiet the morning after Thanksgiving, but something has disturbed his sleep. It takes a moment for Lou to realize he has passed out in a hallway, a snake skin print towel covers his naked body, and a shoebox lies under his head as a pillow. Lou hears a loud metallic rattling from somewhere and he sits up. Blinking, Lou notices that the shoebox has the word COKE written on the lid. Lou opens the box and does a quick sniff test to confirm it is in fact full of cocaine.

Lou wraps the towel around his waist, tucks the shoebox under his arm, and heads in the direction of the noise. As he walks on down the hall he passes by a single open door and stops to peek inside. Mark Arcobello and Morgan Rielly are playing a video game; Peter Holland, Jake Gardiner and Frank Corrado all sit, bleary eyed, staring at the screen.

“You boys should get some sleep.” Lou says.

Peter is the only Leaf to look up. “Right after me,” he says, and looks back to the game. Lou shrugs, not in the mood to press the issue. Confirming again that the shoebox is full of cocaine, Lou continues down the hall.

As he reaches the stairs leading down to the foyer, Lou almost trips over James Reimer. James and Jonathan Bernier have fallen asleep in the hall, leaning against each other. Several empty pie trays are scattered around them. Carefully stepping over the snoring goalies, Lou walks out onto the landing and is blinded by the noonday sun pouring in through the windows above the doorway. The rattling noise is louder now, and as Lou’s eyes adjust to the sunlight, he is sure he hears a low humming as well.

Making his way down the stairs, Lou checks the cocaine again, then notices that Leo Komarov has somehow fallen asleep in the chandelier. As if on cue, the Leaf burps, and vomit splatters on the floor below him. Lou is careful not to step near the splash zone as he makes his way across the entrance toward the kitchens. The rattling is getting louder with every step Lou takes.

Passing through the dining room, Lou sees Scott Harrington still at the table, ripping scraps of meat off a turkey and inhaling them without pause. The bones of five other turkeys are piled before him.

Reaching the kitchen, Lou discovers the source of the noise at last. It is Mike Babcock. The coach is humming loudly as he putters around the kitchen. He is taking clean dishes from a dishwasher and putting them away. There is a pile of pots and pans soaking in the sink and plenty more plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery left to be cleaned. All the dirty dishes on the counter have been organized and sorted neatly by the coach. Lou takes a large sample from his shoebox and Mike halts at the sound, looking over at Lou.

“Good morning Lou, how are you feeling?”

“I’m beautiful, other than all the noise you’re making in here waking up the whole house. Did you want a guy to slit your throat a little, or could you maybe relax for a day?”

“I am relaxed Lou, I just have lot’s to do. I want to get the kitchen in good shape so I can get breakfast started before the boys start waking up. Stephane Robidas and Nathan Horton tried to flood the pantry last night. It’s a disaster in there.” The coach turns away and bellows “How you making out Dan?!”

Daniel Winnik pops his head out from a door way on the other side of the room. “Slowly chipping away,” he says.

Lou licks a finger, dips it into his shoebox, and rubs white powder on his teeth and gums.

“Did you get everything set up?” Mike asks Dan.

“The fans are on.” Daniel replies.

“Do you think they will dry out the room?

“I think so, yeah.” Daniel and Mike both turn away from each other and back to their chores. Mike speaks to Lou without looking at him. “Lou, if you want to help out, I am going to need you to put on some pants.”

“I can’t right now. I’m too busy. I am making sure this blow doesn’t get into the wrong hands. I heard cocaine use is pretty common amongst NHL players. There was a whole article about how young men with money love hookers and blow. So do old men with money, but who cares about us right” Lou snorts a nose load of evil.

“None of our guys use cocaine Lou. They would never be able to keep up if they did.” Mike wears his disapproval plainly on his face. “Speaking of the team, since we have no games this week, I want to organize a field trip to the Science Center.”

“Sorry Mike, I spent this week’s budget getting this coke off the streets. The prices these days are ridiculous. I wish Pablo was still around, he always gave me a discount on bulk orders.”

“If you’re trying to get rid of that stuff, why don’t you just flush it down the toilet?”

“And contaminate the water supply? I take my responsibilities more seriously than that Mike.” Lou scoops up a handful of cocaine and buries his face in it. The powder covers his nose and upper lip when he lifts his head up. “I am protecting the players. Temptations are always everywhere around them. How are they supposed to know drugs are bad when we ask them to focus so much on being supreme athletes. One day a player wants some medicine for a cold, the next thing you know he has to get hopped up on goofballs just to tie his skates. Someone has to look out for the boys. Someone has to care.” Lou takes another large snort. “The more I do now, the less there is out there for the team to get their hands on later. You gonna help me out? It’s what Brendan would want.” Lou holds out his coke filled hand to Mike.

Mike swats the hand away sending the cocaine flying into the air. Lou lets out a yelp as he rushes to stick his head into the cloud, inhaling furiously.

“Get that crap out of here.” Mike says.

“That’s what I’m trying to do” Lou begins licking his hand clean and his towel falls off. Mike shakes his head and gets back to putting dishes away. Instead of humming he speaks loudly, as though the words were a spell, and maybe words do hold the power to create.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley,” Lou is surprised to find himself speaking in unison with the coach. “Thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

Lou fixes his towel and takes his shoebox away from Mike’s bad vibes. Back in the dining room, Scott has finished picking the turkey clean and is digging into a platter of mashed potatoes with enthusiasm. The young Leaf does not even look up as his GM goes by.

Lou walks out the front door and lays down on the sun warmed stone entrance of the manor. Cuddling his box, Lou is snoring within a minute.

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.”

Brendan Shanahan and Kyle Dubas are searching the Toronto Maple Leaf Tower for Mike Babcock. No one seems to know where he is until they get to the second floor of the building, the cafeteria. Brendan is surprised to see all the staff sitting around, and when he asks the head chef what is going on, she just shrugs and points to the kitchen.

“Ask him.”

Mike is alone in the kitchen wearing a Little Miss Sunshine apron over his suit. He is standing at a food preparation sink washing what must be the last of a large pile of leafs. All around the kitchen the clean greens are drying, taking up nearly all the counter space.

“Hey Mike, what’cha doing?” Brendan asks.

“It’s game day so right now I need to make a batch of kale and banana muffins for the team to eat when the game is done. Good nutrition is vital you know. Six muffins per man is the rule, but they’re so good, most guys eat ten or so.”

“How come you’re not getting any of the staff to help you? This looks like a big job.”

“I tried that before our last game, didn’t like what I was seeing. Lots of talking, not a lot of working. I sent them away. Although, now that you mention it, I could use some reliable help. Let me show you something.”

The coach walks over to a far counter where the driest of the kale lies. Picking up one of the leafs he begins to gently but efficiently remove all the stems leaving nothing but fresh meaty green.

“Can you handle that job?” asks Mike. He walks away without waiting for an answer.

“I was hoping we could talk to you about Nylander.” Brendan says as he and Kyle start shucking kale. Mike walks to the large fridge and returns with nine cartons of eggs.

“Well? Talk.” Mike says. He puts the eggs down on the only empty counter in the kitchen and walks back to the fridge.

“Have you decided if he’s on the team this year?”

“Nope.” Mike says as he drops two big tubs of butter on the counter.

“Have you been feeling any pressure?”Mike looks hard at Brendan but doesn’t answer. He returns to the fridge.

Turning to Kyle, Brendan asks, “How much has come in so far?” He has to repeat himself as Kyle has thrown his whole attention to the kale leafs with a mechanical delight. His stylish glasses are fogging over. At last Brendan breaks through the wall of focus and Kyle pulls out his phone to find the information.

“Eight copies on VHS tape as well as thirty-five DVDs. Plus we got forty-two posters and Lou got the stuffed toy.”

“What is this here?” Mike has snuck upon them. Kyle jumps in surprise and drops his phone, but ignores it as he turns back to the leafs. Mike is not happy. He slams a gallon of lemon juice on the counter. “If you’re here, it’s to work Brendan.”

Brendan turns back to the kale. “Dozens of fans have already started letting us know how they feel. They want him to make the team. Mostly they are just sending in harmless stuff, posters and movies, but Lou had an orca toy crammed into the tail pipe of his Buick. Has anyone bothered you?”

Mike walks over to the grocery store caliber produce corner of the kitchen and Brendan needs to strain to hear him.

“I don’t get bothered. As far as Wily goes, he’s a good player. He will star in this league no matter when we put him in. Does that mean I’ve decided if he makes the roster this year? No. What do you guys think?” Mike walks back with an armload of bananas.

Kyle answers immediately. “It would be great to have him on the Marlies this year. They are going to win this year. Winning is good for development, isn’t it Mike?”

Mike has disappeared into the pantry. Brendan considers his answer until the coach comes back out. The mighty Babcock is actually straining under the weight of the sea salt, baking soda, brown sugar, and gluten free oat flour he carries, and Brendan rushes to help him.

“I would rather wait, that said, if he’s good enough to play, then he should play.” Brendan says, taking the sugar sack. “But it’s your team coach.”

With the last of the ingredients on the counter, Mike considers them for a moment.

“I was planning on squeezing my own lemons but there just isn’t time for that. Get going on that kale Brendan. Look at Kyle over there, he really found his rhythm, can you find yours?” With that challenge delivered the coach returns to the pantry.

After several crashes and a bang, Mike wheels an industrial sized food processor into the kitchen, parking it by the ingredients. With an expert hand Mike peels ninety bananas, dropping them into the mixer. After a quick look at the kale progress Mike starts measuring. He takes out three quarters of a cup from the bag of sea salt and dumps it onto the kitchen floor. The remainder of the bag is poured into the mixing bowl. Four tablespoons of brown sugar are carefully measured by the coach, each one patted down flat before being hucked away, the rest of the sack is added to the bowl. This process continues until the last ingredient is poured in. Mike downs the remaining pint of lemon juice even as Brendan and Kyle finish with the last of the kale leafs.

“Dump the leafs in there boys.” Mike picks up an armload himself and drops it into the comically oversized bowl. It takes ten minutes of blending before Mike is satisfied with his mix. The task of getting all fifty muffin pans filled and into the twenty-six pre-heated ovens takes another forty-five minutes. When there is nothing left to do but wait, Mike reaches out to Brendan and Kyle. The three men clasp hands and form a circle bowing their heads. After a moment of silence they speak in unison, as though 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 looks up. “Why would somebody cram a stuffed orca into Lou’s tailpipe?”

“Because of the movie.” Kyle answers. “Free Willy.”

The coach’s brow furrows as he searches his memory.

“Free Willy. That would be a 1993 release, Simon Wincer, directing. Good movie. Nothing to complain about cinematically. The acting is sound. The kids do a great job with the whale. You maybe want to see a little more from Lori Petty. Michael Ironside is just born to be mean and really brings it like a pro. But for me the real surprise of the picture is Michael Madsen. His role is just such a departure from the rest of his work at the time. Don’t get me wrong, I loved him in Baby Snatcher, but he displays a really bold versatility by getting involved with a children’s movie and for me he nails it. Now, is Free Willy a perfect 10 movie? No. And I will tell you why. At some point every filmmaker needs to choose between the natural laws of physics and their vision, and they chose wrong in my opinion. You look at the ending there with the whale jumping over the boy. Any fully grown orca is going to clear that sea wall, but look at the trajectory they give him. With the distance that whale needs to clear, he definitely needs to flatten that arc. There is no chance that jump happens without young Jesse getting a face full of Willy, which would probably be fatal. Maybe most people who watch the movie don’t care about that kind of detail, but for me it just pulls me right out of the moment. So my final rating is a seven out of ten. A nice movie.”

The first oven to be loaded chimes, indicating the gluten free kale and banana muffins are ready.

“See you at the game boys.” Mike says, dismissing Brendan and Kyle. “I’ve got lots of work to do yet.” He is humming loudly as he pulls on his oven mitts.