Hockey pool seeks divine intervention

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 16/10/2017 (3196 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

To: The Gods of Hockey

From: A humble worshipper

Re: Our office hockey pool

Dear Hockey Gods,

As you know, I do not spend a great deal of time praying to any deity in particular, but I thought this would be a good time to fall on my knees and beseech you (I hope that is the correct word) to intervene on my behalf.

I am feeling this way because this is an especially sacred time of year in Canada, a time when stout-hearted guys of my particular gender pray for the help of higher powers, because this is the time of year when we gather together en masse in the most holy of all Canadian rituals, by which I mean drafting the players for our office hockey pool teams.

I do not need to tell you, Hockey Gods, that there is nothing more quintessentially Canadian than selecting an office hockey pool team, unless it is pouring maple syrup on your pancakes while listening to Shania Twain sing O Canada, sitting on the chesterfield downing a two-four and a box of Timbits, or possibly forgetting to unplug your block heater on the first bitterly cold morning of the season and driving to work with your extension cord bumping along behind your car.

Anyone on this side of the border who has NEVER taken part in one of these annual fantasy hockey drafts should probably check their passport and see whether they can recite all the words to our national anthem, because there is no way they can call themselves a Canadian.

I realize, Hockey Gods, I have no moral right to ask you to look favourably upon the players on my office pool team, because, once again, I was, technically speaking, not the person who selected them.

No, I missed the official draft party wherein all my beloved colleagues gathered around a table in a local watering hole, ordered frosty beverages, stuck their noses into hockey magazines containing reams of statistical information, then, in between trading typically Canadian insults about each other’s snowmobiles, picked players they pray will collect the most points this season.

Fortunately, as he does every year when I am unable to attend, my buddy, Murray, who is a member of our business department and occupies the office cubicle behind mine, stepped up to the plate (I apologize for mixing my metaphors) and picked a team for me.

Which is why, Hockey Gods, I am also beseeching you to look kindly on Murray, because thanks to him I was blessed with the first overall selection in our office pool, which means I was able to obtain the best player in hockey, by whom I mean Edmonton Oilers superstar Connor McDavid, who recently signed an eight-year contract with an average annual value of US$12.5 million.

Speaking of money, I want to stress that I am not asking you to guide my team from on high simply because I want to make money, although picking up the first-place prize would go a long way toward helping me buy a much bigger TV, which would make it easier for my aging eyes to see the (bad word) puck.

Money aside, I would like you to intercede on my behalf, Hockey Gods, because I have grown weary of my journalism rivals casting cruel aspersions in my general direction because my office pool team generally finishes last, at least it does in years when Murray has not picked the players in my place.

If it is not asking too much, when you are not watching over the health and ice time of Connor McDavid, it would be greatly appreciated if you, the Supreme Beings of Hockey Goodness, could also keep an eye on the Canadian economy, because, what with so many workers pretending to be NHL general managers and spending all their time monitoring their players’ statistical performances as opposed to doing their actual jobs, our gross domestic product is bound to become more gross, if you catch my subtle financial drift.

Also, I personally would be eternally grateful if you could give me a heads-up whenever my (bad word) editor wanders towards my cubicle while my computer screen is displaying NHL scoring highlights instead of professional journalism stories about mounting trade deficits and Donald Trump’s Twitter account.

In conclusion, Hockey Gods, I realize I am not the only supplicant in this shinny-obsessed nation petitioning you to shower blessings upon their office pool squad, but chances are I am the only one with his own (bad word) column with which to sing your praises, which is something to keep in mind.

Thank you for listening to my prayer, Gods of Our National Game. I am grateful for every goal, assist and shutout you choose to send my way. And if you don’t mind my asking, if you are not too busy keeping the Jets’ Dustin Byfuglien out of trouble, maybe you could find it in your icy hearts to let my pal Murray finish in second place.

Call me an old softie, but I think he’s earned it.

With eternal gratitude,

We’ll talk when the playoffs start,

Doug (“without a prayer”) Speirs

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca