Reporting Carl Stevens
When I went to bed the season was done,
late in the game it was four-to-one.
The Bruins were sluggish, for reasons myriad, they looked like burnt toast in the third period.
They were skating slower than somebody’s grandmother, the Leafs scored a goal and then scored another.
The teddy bear Bruins were a disappointing sight, and so to the season I said “good night.”
But then, as I slept, I had a dream
about a very different team,
a team that wore the black and gold,
but a team courageous, quick and bold.
They too were down, one-to-four,
but this team was different: when they shot, they scored.
They whipped and they whirled, they roared and they sped,
this Bruins team woke up from the dead.
They bumped and they bruised, the Leafs were dismembered they fell like Maple Leaves do in November.
The crash of the music hit a lovely chord as Leaf after Leaf got slammed into the boards.
And their snipers needed more than a second looka as they tried in vain to get one past Tuukka.
Then later, with Rask upon the bench,
out came the Bergeron monkey wrench
to throw Toronto into sudden upheaval.
The Leaves were cotton and the B’s were boll weevils,
the game had no reason, but plenty of rhyme.
and somehow it got into overtime.
Was fortune’s first cousin somehow scheming?
This couldn’t be true… I had to be dreaming.
And then, as I slept deep into the night, it was Patrice again, who lit the light!
What a strange and astonishing feat,
this big, loud miracle on Causeway Street!
Canada’s hope was suddenly smothered.
Complete, happy strangers hugged each other.
The wildest idea was for that minute sane,
for the Bruins had won that improbable game.
I later woke up at a quarter-to-four,
took a shower, got dressed, and walked out the door.
Then on my radio, I heard that the Leafs were through,
and I smiled – some dreams really do come true.
Listen to Carl’s poem here: