LAST week the NHL lockout took a turn for the dramatic when the league's deputy commissioner, Bill Daly, called one of the issues in dispute "the hill we will die on."
It's powerful, moving stuff to think that these brave, brave NHL owners along with Daly, commissioner Gary Bettman and the rest of the soldiers in the league office are willing to give their lives for something they believe in so strongly. The issue they're talking about is almost irrelevant - if you really must know, it's limiting the maximum length of player contracts to five years - but what is important is the ultimate sacrifice these men have sworn to make if they don't get what they want. Forevermore their epitaphs, carved onto the bumpers of now-useless Zambonis, will read, simply: Five Years . . . or Less!
To honour their courage I have penned the opening of The Hill We Will Die On, a fictional take on some real life heroes.
Chapter 1: The Hill
It was dark on that hill. Darker than Luongo's curls on a moonless Winnipeg winter night. The men who were hunkered down on that Godforsaken mound, the owners of the once proud franchises of the National Hockey League, were losing hope.
Edmonton Oilers owner Daryl Katz, manning the night-vision goggles, peered down at the army of Canadian hockey fans amassing at the bottom of the hill.
"They've got Timbits, sir."
"What?!" said General Daly.
"Timbits. They're those delicious little. . . ."
"I know what a Timbit is, dammit. I may be a no-nonsense New York lawyer but I have visited Canada. Twice."
"I like Canada," 72-year-old Boston Bruins owner Jeremy Jacobs said to no one in particular, a wrinkled smile creasing his brow for the first time in weeks. "They've got that sexy Celine Dion up there."
"Pipe down, Jacobs," barked the commander. "This isn't some fantasy league. Those hosers at the bottom of this hill would wrap you up in duct tape and drown you in a vat of maple syrup if they could get their hands on you. And call me General Daly, dammit."
A Timbit zipped out of the darkness, aimed squarely at General Daly's head. He snatched it out of the air, took a bite and spat the now moist, doughy glob to the ground.
"Apple fritter. Gross"
"The general is right, you know," said glassy eyed Montreal owner Geoff Molson. "Canadians are losing it. Habs fans have surrounded my house, they're threatening to burn it down or even-" he sobbed, almost silently, then continued, ". . . start drinking Labatt."
"Pull it together, man," General Daly said, slapping Molson hard on the mouth. Look at Vine-y over there. I'm sure he's faced the same fan anger and he's kept his cool.
"You bet boss," said Florida Panthers chairman Cliff Viner. Dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and holding a coconut shell pina colada, Viner sauntered out of the darkness, the clack clack of his flip flops temporarily drowning out the thud thud of the Timbit barrage. "I've had angry calls from 50 per cent of our season ticket holders. Both of them seemed pretty steamed. I cooled them down by reminding them that it's the NHL that's locked out, not NFL. We love us some football down south."
Just then a commotion erupted at the back of the ranks. A bloodied and muddied Ron Burkle, owner of the Pittsburgh Penguins, stumbled to the fore and collapsed at the feet of the snarling general.
"Sir, I may have found a way out," he said. "I just had a meeting with Sidney Crosby-"
"Do not speak his name in my presence!" screamed General Daly.
"Sorry sir," panted Burkle. "I just had a meeting with . . . the one known as the Kid . . . and together we stumbled upon a new hill, a hill we could all stand on without anyone having to die. Sure there were a few six-year contracts on it, maybe even a couple of seven years, but there was money too. Lots of it, and all we-"
"I've heard enough," said Daly, kicking Burkle hard in the ribs with his steel-toed Gucci loafers. "It's not about the money anymore. We've all got more money than we know what to do with. It's about crushing the players, it's about winning, it's about. . . ."
"The fans?" "Shut up Burkle!" the owners all screamed. "Mr. Burkle, I hardly think this is the time to be actually speaking to those insolent players," said a tiny man in a gigantic, Napoleon-esque hat who appeared seemingly out of thin air.
"Uh, uh, uh, Emperor Bettman," stammered Burkle. "I didn't see you there."
"Silence," said Bettman. "I'm not about to stand here and listen to anyone question my authority. I'm disappointed beyond belief by your traitorous ways Mr. Burkle. I will not go to six-year contracts, I will not have my owners speaking with those ungrateful players. This is the hill we will die on!"
"Timbit, sir?" said Burkle.
"Emperor, we've got trouble," said Katz. "There's another army amassing on the other side of the hill. They must be at least 100 strong, each one a reporter from TSN. They're demanding a 'scoop' for something they're calling Operation Twitter."
"Tell them this is the hill we die on. And, um . . . a hard salary cap is the ocean that we will get seasick on. And, oh, this is a good one: the players' pension plan is a vat of hot, sticky cotton candy that will upset our tummies."
"Good one, Gary," said Daly. "Very dramatic."
"To death!" cried the emperor.
"To death!"
Stay tuned for Chapter 2: Thank God for the World Juniors. . . .
