This is purely satire for entertainment purposes only!
Glen Sather stood at the window watching the wind swirl countless flakes of snow through the narrow canals created by the endless rows of lumbering skyscrapers that spanned across Manhattan. It was Christmas Eve on the Rangers calendar that sat neglected on wall next to the desk. You know the calendar that features mostly players that are no longer on the current roster.
Floyd Barrett, Sather’s personal assistant stood hunched over the desk reading through prospective contract offers. Barrett had to squint though once being able to boast having 20-20 vision, now he had trouble making out the small lettering on the contracts as his vision blurred in and out of focus.
Barrett spared a glance out the window his eye catching the clock that graced the portcullis of Madison Square Garden, the digital read out showed 9:30pm. Barrett’s eyes panned down and he watched the last minute commuters rushing into Penn Station to be with their families, he sighed outwardly. As he turned back towards his desk, he suddenly stopped at the ominous image of Glen Sather.
Sather was turned towards Barrett, his unlit cigar clenched in his mouth as drool collected at ends making the tobacco leaf soggy and loose where it stuck out between his yellow stained teeth. His beady little eyes were staring intently at Barrett and his forehead was creased from the scowl that was permanently planted on his face.
“Did you send them out??!” Sather exclaimed, muffled through his clenched teeth spraying tobacco flavored spit towards Barrett and the contracts that lay on his desk.
Barrett softly took out the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and calmly wiped his face, desk and the contracts careful not to smudge the ink.
Barrett answered, “Not all of them yet, the fax machine has been on the fritz. I sent the 42 million / 7 year offer to Cliff Ronning. Though, I could have sworn he was retired… wait wasn’t he? Sir, I know you don’t like to hear this, but aren’t you concerned with the salary cap?? It’s going down next season“
“Cap?? Bah humbug! What did I tell you about saying those words to me??” Sather continued his spit riddled barking, “The Teppo Numminen contract??!”
Barrett quickly sorted through the contracts, then he shuffled through again in a more frantic pace. He gulped before answering, “It’s not here…”
“Where is it!?? Find it! Get it!! Send it out!!! NOW!” boomed Sather showering Barrett and the immediate area in a shower of tobacco spit.
Barrett looked up pleadingly at Sather and uttered meekly, “But, sir… its Christmas… my family…”
“Get the contract!! Find it!! Send it!!! NOW!!! You think Kevin Lowe is worried about Christmas??! MOVE!!” Sather boomed as his fist hit against the desk in a rage. Sather continued, “Don’t fail me again, like you did with Mats Sundin! You slow doddering fool. You know how many cups I've won with the Oilers, count em!”
Barrett briskly scooped up the papers and scuttled out of the office as Sather leered after him with his hands placed on his hips tapping his foot.
With a sudden urge Sather grabbed the phone on the desk and punched in numbers that with a standard routine as if it was the hundredth time he's entered them. Sather cleared his throat as he heard ringing echoing from the ear piece. The ringing continued and continued as Sathers’ patience worn thinner and thinner. Finally the ringing seized and a voice could be heard on the other end.
“Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Don Maloney. Sorry I couldn’t take your call, please leave a message at the beep... if this is Dave stop calling! I'm not giving your golf clubs back.”
Sather’s irritated voice boomed soon as the beep was heard, “Bah, where the hell are you?? What?? Did you and your degenerate brother have another La Sassoon commercial to make? " Sather rubbed his chin and continued, "Listen, call me back immediately. What we talked about the other day, forget about it… new deal, Marc Staal straight up for Ken Klee. Call me back.”
----
Later that night Sather was strolling down past 34th street. His driver was nowhere to be seen as a steady flow of snow fluttered past Sather’s scowling face. Sather huffed and puffed and decided he’d just have to walk the 5 blocks to his east side penthouse. As Sather started to walk from the MSG vestibule his foot hits into something solid and a groan is heard. Sather looks down in surprise to see a body wrapped in a blanket.
“Can ya spare some change?” a grizzled voice uttered from inside the blanket. Sather looked down at the carcass in rage, “What do you think I’m in the business of just giving money away!?” Sather started to briskly walk away but suddenly stopped with a thought occurring to him. He asked, “Wait, can you ice skate?”
The body under the blanket stirred and a head poked out… a familiar face. Sather exclaimed, “Glenn Anderson?? What the hell??”
Anderson smiled showing much less teeth than we all remember, and then suddenly he looks very seriously at Sather and muttered, “You’ve strayed from the path, haven’t ya?”
Sather thoughtlessly replied, “No, actually I live right down this way.” Anderson continued unhindered, “Oh we’ll set you right again, don’t you worry.” Sather blinked for a second then regained his composure, “Well, good seeing you there Glenn, hope things work out.”
As Sather walked away a voice echoed behind him and began laughing with manic delight, “Oh yes, we’ll set you right, better set time for some appointments tonight old boy.”
Sather whirled around to look back at his old friend but the place where the blanket once laid was completely empty, not even an imprint in the snow was left.
----
Sather sat in his favorite chair reading the copy of the Hockey News as he casually sipped hot chocolate spiked with 151 as he turned the pages, licking his finger so not to turn too many pages at once.
He was wearing a nightgown of sorts with slippers and a sleeping cap. Sather suddenly put down the hockey news and grabbed his cellphone, he looked at the display then sighed with disappointment when it showed no voicemails or new calls.
Sather slowly climbed out of his easy chair and slowly made his way to the bedroom. He stretched half lazily and laid down in his bed burrowing himself under the Kashmir sheets and covers. Then with a last ditch effort he clapped his hands together twice and the lights all went out and Glen Sather drifted off to sleep...
...to be continued.
Click here for Part 2
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