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I have of late—in a Calgary I know not—lost all my mirth, and indeed it goes so heavily against his disposition that this goodly frame, my stick, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent Therrien the Fair—look you, his brave o'erhanging testament, his farcical roof fretted with ruddy fire—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Therrien delights not me. No, nor hockey neither, nor hockey neither.
To goon, or not to goon: that is the question:
Whether ’tis Habbier in fans mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous media,
Or to bare fists against a sea of Leafs and Bruins,
And by opposing end them? To ban: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural knocks
That a goon is heir to, ’tis a concussion
Devoutly to be avoided. For if ‘twas to die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that game without fights what scenes may come
When it has shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes a ruin of that elder’s life;
For who would bear the fists and checks of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, Marchand’s insolence.
Lucy’s stick of despised love, the ref not seeing the play,
The blindness of the NHL offices and the fans
whose patient merit of the untrustworthy takes,
When the goon himself reaches his final destination
Bereft of reason? Who would be the fardel of the pallbearers,
Who grunt and sweat under this bleak life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose stream
No player returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus concussions do make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of Fate,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their actions turn awry,
And so lose the game of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Cup of Stanley! Goal, in our prayers
Be all these goons remember’d.