Yet another day passes as I mope along Hockey Highway during this ever-so-dull summer. I can barely lift my feet. Had I known this road would be so desolate, I would've worn more appropriate shoes than my Chuck Taylor's. Tumbleweeds pass and sputter off into the distance behind me.
I'm suddenly blinded as an old article from a local newspaper's sports page encompasses my face. I pry it off, spitting the desert's sand out of my mouth, and take a glance at the headline...
JULY 3rd, 2008: SUNDIN DECISION COMING SOON!
I giggle and continue on. Suddenly the roaring sound of an engine becomes audible behind me. I block out the sweltering sun enough to make out a speeding limousine making its way toward me. A gentleman in his late '20s, holding what looks like a posterboard, gleefully raises his arms in celebration out of the sunroof. As the vehicle gets closer, I realize the elated man is holding a giant check that reads:
PAY TO THE ORDER OF: JEFF FINGER $14,000,000
~~~~~~~Fourteen Million~~~~~~~ DOLLARS
MEMO: Blatant Overpayment ||||||||||| Cliff Fletcher
Both driver and passenger are oblivious to my extended thumb, so I decide to offer them another finger as they pass me by.
Miles later I stumbled upon a small wooden hut with a heap of hockey pads stacked outside. As I approach, the door swings open and a weasel in a business suit comes out and grabs a pair of goalie leg pads from the pile. I covertly sneak in behind him as "Cuts Like a Knife" by Bryan Adams plays. I turn the corner and peak around into the other room like Solid Snake (sans stylish headband). There stands Gary Bettman, wielding a large chain saw.
Bettman: Sorry boys, rules are rules!
He then grins maniacally and the chainsaw descends towards the helpless equipment.
Suddenly I recognize Rick Dipietro, hair perfectly coiffed as always, begging the commissioner from his knees.
Rick: Please Mr. Bettman, make the nets bigger, the puck smaller, anything. Just not my pads!
Rick then turns to a weeping JS Giguere, cradling what is left of his once enormous gear.
A strong gust rips through and the door slams shut. Bettman halts. Suddenly he's hunkered over me, as my presence has been revealed.
Bettman: Who the heck are you?!?
I slither away and make my way for the door, the chainsaw revving behind me. As I sprint away, I'm aided by the sand as it blinds Bettman and he charges off in the opposite direction. Miraculously, a small compact car makes its way down the road and pulls over. The driver insists I get in.
I come to the realization that, of all the people in the universe, Ulf Samuelsson has come to my rescue. Baffled, I ponder aloud if he's ever done anything nice for anyone in his entire existence. It wasn't long before we began arguing about his eventual career ending cheap shot against Neely years back.
He then pulled over, got out, and yanked me from the passenger seat. I regained consciousness, after my unwarranted pummeling, a broken, bruised and nearly hopeless man. Then I realized my assailant was kind enough to prop me up against a rickety sign alongside Hockey Highway. I looked up realized it read:
"
40 Days Til Opening Night", the number visibly interchangeable.
I wiped the blood from my swollen lip, re-laced my chucks, and marched on knowing, eventually, hockey and all of it's glory shall return.
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