It’s long been a dream of mine to play professional hockey, and this is a goal I’ve worked very hard to achieve. Unfortunately, I’ve never been quite good enough to make the grade, and as the years pass by my chances of making the NHL are rapidly diminishing. In an effort to remind the NHL GM’s and coaches who might still be looking for a character guy in the locker room, of just how committed I am to this dream, I am providing a short list of some of the things I’m willing to do to fulfill my dream of playing in the NHL.

I am perfectly willing to serve as a shutdown, 4^th line centre, instead of the natural, 1^st line scorer I am, if it gets me into the NHL faster.

I will continue with my figure skating lessons, trying to improve my balance and explosiveness on the ice in order to make me a better team player.

I would not hesitate to drop the gloves.

I will cut back on my shifts at David’s Tea in order to train more.

I would consent to wearing a suit and tie to and from the rink for every game.

I would kill a bird with a rock.

I would be willing to relocate.

If necessary, I would subordinate my natural leadership skills in order to better serve the team.

I will say no to hanging out with friends and going out to parties because I know I have to be up early the next morning to train.

I would have sex with Tom Hardy– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious about what being gay might feel like– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.

I would also have sex with Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious to know what it might feel like to be gay with two other stunning and sexy men– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.

I would give up my participation in fantasy hockey in order to protect the integrity of the NHL and the great game of hockey.

I would take up hunting in order to better fit in with my peers.

I would consider giving up gluten.

I would also consider giving up Choir! Choir! Choir! in order to more fully dedicate myself to my dream of playing in the NHL.

In front of the Shopper’s Drug Mart there was a busker who likely saw Melissa Etheridge when she looked in the mirror. Wearing a beaten, red leather jacket, her hair was a wild scramble, and she sang with a ferocious, biting confidence. She was middle-aged, and all the songs she was playing were classics from the latter part of the 70s, songs that must have recalled the field parties of her youth when everybody passed joints around the bonfire, nodding along as she sang so fully, her future path seeming so clear.

At Sarah’s Shawarma the woman serving me had big, butcher fingers and the look of a farm worker from Eastern Europe. Her eyes were tender and vulnerable, suggesting that all she wanted to do in this world was help other people. And at the only occupied table in the place sat a thin and pale man wearing a Rush sweatshirt. He was finishing the last of his soup with such a dreamy pleasure that I had no choice but to simply stop and watch—as if bearing witness to a pure and holy moment.

When I stepped out onto the street there was a sudden chorus of Happy Birthday. The voices were in tune, harmonizing, and it was lovely, like music you might imagine hearing from across the water, something passing through time, as if light from a star. I looked around and eventually spotted them, five college-aged boys striding happily down the street singing into a cell phone one of them was holding aloft, “Happy birthday dear Rita, happy birthday to you,” and I thought of Rita in 30 years, one day, for no particular reason, remembering the surprise of this message and those beautiful boys.