Stanley Cup Quotes

As leaders, we are never responsible for filling anyone else's cup. Our responsibility is to empty ours.

I give Hunter shit, but what he did was brave. Kissing his boyfriend on TV like that. And the speech at the awards.” “It was. It really…made me hopeful. That things might be changing.” Ilya shot the puck back to Shane. “It made me jealous,” he admitted. Shane laughed. "You wanna kiss me on television?" "Yes. After I win the Stanley cup." Shane spread his arms out. "Oh, so in this scenario, you've just defeated me?" "Yes. Sorry." “I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.” “But you would be so proud of me!

I'll have a cup full of Happiness and a pocket full of Rainbows to go.

goal-directed self-imposed delay of gratification" is perhaps the essence of emotional self-regulation: the ability to deny impulse in the service of a goal, whether it be building a business, solving an algebraic equation, or pursuing the Stanley Cup. His finding underscores the role of emotional intelligence as a meta-ability, determining how well or how poorly people are able to use their other mental capacities.

Every name looks fashionable when it's etched in silver. (Stanley Cup)

I admire the Stanley Cup. I’ll bet winning it could provide enough clean water for half of Africa (the middle half).

She wants to scream so loud that all the other neighbors here in the Heights can hear it too. Scream that she loves hockey. LOVES hockey! But she's a girl, so what happens if she says that to a boy? He says: 'Really? You're a girl and you like hockey? Okay! Who won the Stanley Cup in 1983, then? Well? And who came seventh in the league in 1994? Well? If you like hockey you ought to be able to answer that.

For the entire summer, Lane’s cell phone background was a picture of Jared eating Lucky Charms out of the Kelly Cup. Jared’s was, of course, that shot of his that blocked Lane’s would-be goal. According to Jared, it was going to stay that way until he had a picture of Lane drinking Dr Pepper out of Lord Stanley’s Cup to replace it with. He liked to call it incentive.

Forget turning out like my dad, a measly professional athlete. Or my mother, a mere award-winning songwriter. I was going to be Stanley Cup and rule the fucking world. I can’t remember who burst my bubble. Probably my twin brother, Wyatt. He’s an unrepentant bubble burster.

I was going to be Stanley Cup and rule the fucking world. I can’t remember who burst my bubble. Probably my twin brother, Wyatt. He’s an unrepentant bubble burster.

One day you’ll win the Stanley Cup in a game seven. Probably in sudden death overtime, because you will never, ever make anything in my life easy, and I’ll probably have a heart attack watching the game.

Listen, this isn’t working. You’re too fucking hot and the presidents aren’t helping, I’ve moved on to Stanley Cup winners, but with you just here”—he gestures to my thighs spread across him—“looking like that,” he says, gesturing up my body, “it’s going to take forever.

Fucking love you,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Stevie.” I put that conversation on pause and instead nudge his nose with mine and kiss him once more. “Linds!” he shouts back over his shoulder. “Let’s pop those bottles of champagne! We won the Stanley Cup, and I got my girl back. Now we can celebrate!

As leaders, we are never responsible for filling anyone else’s cup. Our responsibility is to empty ours. So

Three eggs two slices of toast a cup of coffee an episode of Mr. Ed. A Violin and a bowl of fruit what else does a man need?

Wow, this pizza is so good,” I said, swallowing a gooey bite. “It is,” Ben agreed. “But I think Sage needs a little more garlic on his. Piri says he loves the stuff.” “Nice,” I said, nodding. “So what have you guys been doing since we got to the hotel?” Rayna asked. “Playing cribbage,” Ben said. “Ask Sage who won.” “You say that like you never lost a game,” Sage countered. “Not at all. I’m just asking you to inform the ladies who won the most games.” “That would be you,” Sage admitted. “Four out of seven,” Ben crowed, “which is like winning the Stanley Cup of cribbage.” I had no idea what that meant. Ben had to explain that the Stanley Cup is a best-of-seven match. “I prefer soccer,” Sage said. “In the World Cup the preliminary games are just lead-ups to the final. And if Ben would be so kind as to let you know who won our final game…” “Misnomer,” Ben said. “You won the last game we played before dinner, yes, but the final game won’t come until right before we go our separate ways. You let me know when you’re about to head back to South America for good, and I’ll bring out the cards for that match. I’m ready whenever you are.” He said it lightly, but his eyes were steely, and we all picked up on his real message.

Many an actor in many a makeup chair has gobbled down many a breakfast as a poor makeup artist tries to daub foundation on a masticating jaw and bobbing Adam’s apple while politely ignoring the sulfurous stench of the actor’s hard-boiled eggs. It is also in the makeup trailer, an oasis of sorts for actors, where one can be assured of getting the best cup of coffee on set, because most makeup artists outfit them with good coffeemakers.

Bistami watched his fellow scholars around the fire in the evenings, intent on a point of doctrine, or the questionable isnad of a hadith, and what that meant, arguing with exaggerated punctilio and little debater’s jokes and flourishes, while a pot of thick hot coffee was poured with solemn attention into little glazed clay cups, all eyes gleaming with firelight and pleasure in the argument; and he thought, these are the Muslims who make Islam good.

con Zucchine alla Nerano — SERVES 4 — About 16fl oz sunflower oil or vegetable oil, or, if you choose, olive oil 8 to 10 small zucchine (courgettes) 75g chopped fresh basil Sea salt to taste Extra virgin olive oil 500g spaghetti 200g grated Parmigiano-Reggiano • Put the sunflower oil in a large pot and bring to a low boil over medium-high heat. • Slice the zucchine into thin rounds and fry in the oil until they are golden brown. Remove and set aside on paper towels. • Sprinkle with basil and salt. • Transfer to a bowl and drizzle liberally with olive oil. • Boil the pasta until al dente and strain, reserving about two cupfuls of the pasta water. • Place the cooked pasta in a large pan or pot over low heat along with the zucchine mixture and combine gently. Add the pasta water, a little at a time, to create a creamy texture. You may not use all of the pasta water. Now add some of the Parmigiano to the mixture and continue to combine by stirring gently and tossing. When the mixture has a slight creaminess, remove from the stove and serve immediately. Note: The zucchine mixture can be refrigerated for about 5 days for use at a later date. Best to bring it to room temperature before using.

Pizzoccheri — SERVES 4 TO 6 — 1 medium Savoy cabbage A big, sexy slab of Valtellina cheese, or something similar, like fontina 3 large yellow potatoes A fuck of a lot of butter 4 large garlic cloves 1 pound pizzoccheri Extra-virgin olive oil 2 handfuls grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, or Bitto (if available and you can afford it) Salt Remove and discard any tough outer leaves from the cabbage and roughly chop it into long pieces. Thinly cut about 15 pieces of Valtellina cheese and also grate about 3 cups. Set aside. Preheat the oven to 325°F. Peel and dice the potatoes and boil until cooked but still firm, about 15 minutes or so. Halfway through boiling, add the cabbage to the potatoes. When the potatoes and cabbage are cooked, drain them and set them aside. In a large, deep frying pan over low heat, melt the fuckload of butter. Gently crush (if that’s even possible) the garlic cloves, place them in the pan, and cook until they soften and the butter has melted but not turned brown. Boil the pizzoccheri until al dente and drain, reserving about 2 cups of the water. Return the pizzoccheri to the pot and drizzle them with a little olive oil or some butter so they don’t stick together. Pour a little of the garlic butter into a baking dish and begin to layer the ingredients, starting with the pizzoccheri, then the cabbage, then the potatoes, then both cheeses, drizzling more garlic butter over the whole mixture after each layer, adding a bit of the reserved pasta water to ensure it doesn’t get too thick but making sure it doesn’t get too watery. You may need only a cup. Top the final layer with a drizzle of olive oil and more grated cheese. Cover with foil and bake for about 15 minutes or so. Remove the foil and return to the oven until the top has a slight crisp. Salt to taste. Serve it and eat it and drink a lot of wine with it and think about how much you deserve it after you burned off so many

Change is a good thing,” Jacey whispered as she stared at the Stanley Cup Championship plaques lining the wall. They were from the eighties and the Cleveland Rockers incarnation of the current team, but still reflected hockey success.

Besides, I’m more proud that I won you—my love of a lifetime—than something as trivial as the Stanley Cup.

When I was giving birth to my son, I had a veritable entourage of attendees, including, but not limited to, my mother and sister. I brought two art cards of my mother’s work with me to give myself something to focus on during labour. I expected to use “Sister Moon” more than “Winter’s Cup” because to me it is my mother as a young woman. It is probably my favourite piece of hers and I wanted her with me on many levels for the grand event. However, to my surprise, it was the image of myself that I clung to. The one of me conveying utter determination and strength, clothed in old finery, raising a chalice above my head while I literally manifested and birthed good things from within. It became, in those trying hours, a vital source of power for me. I see the picture differently now. “Winter's Cup” as my mother created it has found a life of its own, far from the one she ever imagined. In the end, this is perhaps the greatest achievement of an artist, of a mother, that their work moves beyond them, becoming for the viewer a source of truth and beauty with new stories to tell….

Montreal had a metropolitan population of over 400,000 in January of 1907. It was Canada’s biggest, richest, and most important city. Kenora, with a population of about 6,000 people, was, and will likely forever be, the smallest city ever to win the Stanley Cup.

Montreal was the location of ice hockey’s first formal game (1875), its first published rules (1877), its first official club (1877), its first major tournament (1883), its first intercity league (1886) and its first national champion (1893).11 That occurred when the reigning governor general, Lord Frederick Stanley of Preston, presented his famous Cup, and a five-team league—three of which were from Montreal—settled on its winner.12 For much of this time, hockey as an organized sport had been marginal and largely unknown in Toronto.

Spaghetti con Zucchine alla Nerano — SERVES 4 — About ½ quart sunflower oil or vegetable oil, or, if you choose, olive oil 8 to 10 small zucchine 1 ½ cups chopped fresh basil Sea salt to taste Extra-virgin olive oil 1 pound spaghetti 3 cups grated Parmigiano-Reggiano Put the sunflower oil in a large pot and bring to a low boil over medium-high heat. Slice the zucchine into thin rounds and fry in the oil until it is golden brown. Remove and set aside on paper towels. Sprinkle with the basil and the salt to taste. Transfer to a bowl and drizzle liberally with olive oil. Boil the pasta until al dente and strain, reserving about 2 cups of the pasta water. Place the cooked pasta in a large pan or pot over low heat along with the zucchine mixture and combine gently. Add the pasta water, a little at a time, to create a creamy texture. You may not use all of the pasta water. Now add some of the Parmigiano to the mixture and continue to combine by stirring gently and tossing. When the mixture has a slight creaminess, remove from the stove and serve immediately.

Camden! You won the Stanley Cup!” That reminds me, Barrett’s shot was the winning goal. I drop her to her feet and kiss her cheek, then grab the winning puck off the bench. “Be right back.

Camden! You won the Stanley Cup!” That reminds me, Barrett’s shot was the winning goal. I drop her to her feet and kiss her cheek, then grab the winning puck off the bench. “Be right back.” I skate to Barrett and thrust it into his chest. “This one is yours.” It practically sends him into tears, which gets me choked up. Damn, he sure is going out with a bang. “Your last puck, and it won the Stanley Cup.

She was fucking gorgeous and all mine. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to wrap her in blankets to keep her away from prying eyes or put her on my shoulder and parade her around the party like the Stanley Cup.

Seattle sports had once risen briefly to international prominence, in 1917, when the city’s professional hockey team, the Metropolitans, became the first American team to win the Stanley Cup, defeating the Montreal Canadiens. But the Metropolitans ordinarily played only in the Pacific Coast Hockey Association, and when the owner of their arena did not renew their lease in 1924, the team folded. Given

If this book were just about nostalgia, or highlights from my career, it would just reinforce a version of the story I never found particularly interesting. The trophies, the scoring titles, the Stanley Cups—that’s all in the history books now. But like that famous photo, or the statue outside the TD Garden, they don’t tell you much. They don’t speak to values or to motivation. They don’t explain inspiration, or add asterisks for the people who helped me (or pushed me). They record, in the simplest way, what happened on the ice, not how I got there, or who I met along the way and what I learned from them.

Seattle sports had once risen briefly to international prominence, in 1917, when the city’s professional hockey team, the Metropolitans, became the first American team to win the Stanley Cup,

As leaders, we are never responsible for filling anyone else’s cup. Our responsibility is to empty ours.

Within a six-month period in 1935 and 1936, the Tigers, Red Wings, and Lions all captured titles as Detroit’s own Joe Louis reigned as boxing’s uncrowned champion. Detroit remains the only city to score the trifecta of a World Series, a Stanley Cup, and an NFL championship in one season.

After the news Kate had called him with last night, Grady found himself wishing there was more than coffee in his cup. There was a lull in the bickering, so Grady tried again. “For the last damn time, I am not gay,” he said quietly. “Okay, so you say. I mean if that’s your story, I’m fine with that,” Stanley said, rolling his eyes. “Well that’s just great.” Grady stood and made eye contact with Kate.

In Las Vegas, the odds on the North Stars winning the Stanley Cup were 10,000 to 1. On the Pittsburgh Penguins, they were 8 to 1.

he’s wearing his signature Dallas Stars, Stanley Cup-winning baseball hat backwards. My depraved pussy doesn’t stand a chance. She’s a whore for a backward baseball hat—especially on this devastating looking hockey star turned part-time cowboy.

Listen, this isn’t working. You’re too fucking hot and the presidents aren’t helping. I’ve moved to Stanley Cup winners, but with you just here”—he gestures to my thighs spread across him—“looking like that,” he says, gesturing up my body, “it’s going to take forever.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You have anointed my head with oil; My cup overflows. Surely goodness and lovingkindness will follow me all the days of my life, And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever. (Psalm 23:4–6)

An airplane is sewn by the outside ankle of the left shoe. There’s a hockey stick and a Stanley Cup on the right. An ocean and sunset which I assume is Florida. A head of chestnut curls and I could recognize that as representing my sister even from a mile away. A number thirty-eight is nestled into Boston’s skyline for her friend Rio, I guess. I don’t let myself think too far into that because I’m just grateful there’s nothing regarding her shitty ex that she would quite literally be walking around with.

There are moments in life a person never forgets, good and bad. My first goal, nearly having my dick decapitated, being drafted to the NHL, winning the Stanley Cup, and telling Lily I loved her for the first time all fit into this category. The first time your girlfriend tells you she wants to let you near her ass also earns a special place in the memory bank of Holy Fuck.

Let me tell you something, you can never, not in a sudden-death Canada Cup final or anything else, experience the pressure of the seventh game of a Stanley Cup final. It takes you a month just to get your appetite back after that.

We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?” The statement was vague, but Ilya understood. “Yes. If you want to try this, I will do what I need to do.” “I will too. Anything. I want this. I want us.” Ilya brushed Shane’s hair out of his eyes. “Then I am moving to Ottawa, I think.” “And we’re starting a charity.” “And we will become friends.” “And we’ll see each other all the time. As much as possible. And spend the summers together. Here.” “Yes.” They kissed again. Ilya couldn’t believe they had solved this impossible problem. Maybe it wouldn’t go as smoothly as they imagined, but it was a plan. “And when I retire,” Ilya said, “after I have won twelve Stanley Cups and thirteen MVP awards—” “The hell you will.” “And you have been retired for, like, eight years already because you got very bad at hockey...” Shane laughed. “Okay.” “Then I will bring you to that dock out there. I will have hundreds of candles all over it...” “That sounds like a fire hazard.” “Is on the water, Hollander. Fucking relax. Will be beautiful, you will love it. The candles. The lake. The full moon.” “Oh, is it a clear night?” “Yes. Of course. And I will get on one knee—” “Ilya—” “And I will say, ‘Shane Hollander, will you please marry me so I can become Canadian citizen faster?’” Shane burst out laughing, and shoved him. “You’re such an asshole.” “And you will say yes, because you are a nice, helpful guy.” “No,” Shane said, taking his hands. “I will say yes because I will still be madly in love with you. And I’ll want to spend the rest of my life with you.” - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry

We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?” The statement was vague, but Ilya understood. “Yes. If you want to try this, I will do what I need to do.” “I will too. Anything. I want this. I want us.” Ilya brushed Shane’s hair out of his eyes. “Then I am moving to Ottawa, I think.” “And we’re starting a charity.” “And we will become friends.” “And we’ll see each other all the time. As much as possible. And spend the summers together. Here.” “Yes.” They kissed again. Ilya couldn’t believe they had solved this impossible problem. Maybe it wouldn’t go as smoothly as they imagined, but it was a plan. “And when I retire,” Ilya said, “after I have won twelve Stanley Cups and thirteen MVP awards—” “The hell you will.” “And you have been retired for, like, eight years already because you got very bad at hockey...” Shane laughed. “Okay.” “Then I will bring you to that dock out there. I will have hundreds of candles all over it...” “That sounds like a fire hazard.” “Is on the water, Hollander. Fucking relax. Will be beautiful, you will love it. The candles. The lake. The full moon.” “Oh, is it a clear night?” “Yes. Of course. And I will get on one knee—” “Ilya—” “And I will say, ‘Shane Hollander, will you please marry me so I can become Canadian citizen faster?’” Shane burst out laughing, and shoved him. “You’re such an asshole.” “And you will say yes, because you are a nice, helpful guy.” “No,” Shane said, taking his hands. “I will say yes because I will still be madly in love with you. And I’ll want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Thomas hitched his pants to keep the ironing crisp, and sat. Rose put creases in his shirtsleeves, too. Used starch. Even in dull clay-green work clothes, he looked respectable. His collar never flopped. But he wanted to flop. The chair was padded, comfortable. Too comfortable. Thomas opened his thermos. It was a top-of-the-line Stanley, a gift from his oldest daughters. They had given him this thermos to celebrate his salaried position. He poured a measure of black coffee into the steel cover that was also a cup. The warm metal, the gentle ridges, the rounded feminine base of the cap, were pleasant to hold. He allowed his eyelids a long and luxurious blink each time he drank. Nearly slipped over the edge. Jerked awake. Fiercely commanded the dregs in the cup to do their work

Their archrival, Atropia, is nowhere near as fit, fast, or disciplined, and every four years, when the teams meet in the qualifying rounds of the World Cup, Krasnovian hopes run high. Usually around minute five, however, something happens that diverges from any of Coach T’s 712 plans. The Krasnovians continue to execute their immaculate choreography, but they are kicking at the air and passing to nobody. The Atropians, without a plan but with awareness of the entire field, run circles around them. After each loss, Coach T goes back and devises another plan, and by the next match, he has a flawless solution to the expired Atropian plays.

He looks up and notices the Plexiglas box on the rickety shelf above the toilet and his eyes grow two sizes bigger. He looks at me and back at the trophy. "Is that a fucking Stanley Cup ring?" "Yeah. Jude's first," I explain. "He gave it to my dad. Dad used to keep it here. It was a prized possession in his favorite place." "In the shitter?" Holden is both stunned and horrified as he rises to his feet and leans forward to admire it. "He kept it on his dresser, where he could see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night." I say and I almost smile as I explain the rest. "But Sadie, Dixie and I always move it to the bathroom. At first, Jude actually thought Dad kept it there, but then he realized it was our way of keeping him humble. Reminding him rings and trophies mean shit to us. He still has to be a good person." Holden chuckles and I'm surprised by how good it feels to make him laugh. "You girls sure know how to keep a guy in place ... and dishonor a symbol of the hardest trophy to win in sports.

Where does the word cocktail come from? There are many answers to that question, and none is really satisfactory. One particular favorite story of mine, though, comes from The Booze Reader: A Soggy Saga of a Man in His Cups, by George Bishop: “The word itself stems from the English cock-tail which, in the middle 1800s, referred to a woman of easy virtue who was considered desirable but impure. The word was imported by expatriate Englishmen and applied derogatorily to the newly acquired American habit of bastardizing good British Gin with foreign matter, including ice. The disappearance of the hyphen coincided with the general acceptance of the word and its re-exportation back to England in its present meaning.” Of course, this can’t be true since the word was applied to a drink before the middle 1800s, but it’s entertaining nonetheless, and the definition of “desirable but impure” fits cocktails to a tee. A delightful story, published in 1936 in the Bartender, a British publication, details how English sailors of “many years ago” were served mixed drinks in a Mexican tavern. The drinks were stirred with “the fine, slender and smooth root of a plant which owing to its shape was called Cola de Gallo, which in English means ‘Cock’s tail.’ ” The story goes on to say that the sailors made the name popular in England, and from there the word made its way to America. Another Mexican tale about the etymology of cocktail—again, dated “many years ago”—concerns Xoc-tl (transliterated as Xochitl and Coctel in different accounts), the daughter of a Mexican king, who served drinks to visiting American officers. The Americans honored her by calling the drinks cocktails—the closest they could come to pronouncing her name. And one more south-of-the-border explanation for the word can be found in Made in America, by Bill Bryson, who explains that in the Krio language, spoken in Sierra Leone, a scorpion is called a kaktel. Could it be that the sting in the cocktail is related to the sting in the scorpion’s tail? It’s doubtful at best. One of the most popular tales told about the first drinks known as cocktails concerns a tavernkeeper by the name of Betsy Flanagan, who in 1779 served French soldiers drinks garnished with feathers she had plucked from a neighbor’s roosters. The soldiers toasted her by shouting, “Vive le cocktail!” William Grimes, however, points out in his book Straight Up or On the Rocks: A Cultural History of American Drink that Flanagan was a fictional character who appeared in The Spy, by James Fenimore Cooper. He also notes that the book “relied on oral testimony of Revolutionary War veterans,” so although it’s possible that the tale has some merit, it’s a very unsatisfactory explanation. A fairly plausible narrative on this subject can be found in Famous New Orleans Drinks & How to Mix ’em, by Stanley Clisby Arthur, first published in 1937. Arthur tells the story of Antoine Amedie Peychaud, a French refugee from San Domingo who settled in New Orleans in 1793. Peychaud was an apothecary who opened his own business, where, among other things, he made his own bitters, Peychaud’s, a concoction still available today. He created a stomach remedy by mixing his bitters with brandy in an eggcup—a vessel known to him in his native tongue as a coquetier. Presumably not all Peychaud’s customers spoke French, and it’s quite possible that the word, pronounced coh-KET-yay, could have been corrupted into cocktail. However, according to the Sazerac Company, the present-day producers of Peychaud’s bitters, the apothecary didn’t open until 1838, so there’s yet another explanation that doesn’t work.

- The key to holding your downward dogs without wanting to kill yourself and your yoga instructor? CLAW THE MAY. Plug into your fingertips and knuckles when you step into the pose - this will create a kind of suction cup in the palm of your hand that will protect your wrist and be much more comfortable overall. This grip will allow you to balance the weight of your body between both your top and bottom halves, as opposed to bearing the full weight of your body into one joint.

In Jack Vaughn's 18 seasons as owner of the Cleveland Rockers, he'd seen five Stanley Cups. It didn't take a hockey expert to know how good that record was. And now the pressure rested on her shoulders to continue the tradition. In their three-year existance, the Sinners hadn't even made a playoff run. Time to change that.

In a truly lethal pandemic, state and local authorities could take much more aggressive steps, such as closing theaters, bars, and even banning sports events—in 1919 even the Stanley Cup finals were canceled—and church services.

In a truly lethal pandemic, state and local authorities could take much more aggressive steps, such as closing theaters, bars, and even banning sports events—in 1919 even the Stanley Cup finals were canceled—and church services. Possibly the most controversial NPI is closing schools—most controversial because such extreme steps as those listed above would occur only in a major emergency. Closing schools could occur in a much less serious situation, making it a much more difficult call.

maybe pigs would fly, or the Leafs would win the Stanley Cup.

A few years ago, Crosby fashioned a replica Stanley Cup out of a small garbage can and a bowl, using a label-maker to add the winner’s names.

large red onions, thinly sliced, then roughly chopped 8 small anchovies, rinsed and finely chopped Extra-virgin olive oil Butter 6 salted, dried capers, roughly chopped Chicken or vegetable stock 9 ounces spaghetti Breadcrumbs and chopped parsley, for serving In a large pan over medium heat, cook the onions and anchovies in a glug of olive oil and a knob of butter until soft, without letting them brown. Add the capers. Add a couple of ladlefuls (about 2 cups) chicken or vegetable stock and cook for 5 to 10 minutes. Meanwhile, boil the spaghetti until al dente. Strain the pasta, reserving a bit of pasta water. Add the pasta and a splash of pasta water to the mixture in the pan. Add a bit more butter and olive oil and toss together. Serve in a bowl. Sprinkle with a handful of breadcrumbs and chopped parsley.

I can suggest a couple of reasons why I was traded,” Hall said afterward. “Number one is that [Jack Adams] didn’t think I could play well enough to be good over the long haul. The other is that you should never tell your general manager to go fuck himself. The combination of the two made it easy to trade me.

Let’s face it,” Eddie Johnston declared, “we’re just a bunch of kooks and degenerates who get along.

Beer and garbage rained down from the Garden rafters as outraged Boston fans focused their anger on the rugged 6-foot-3, 215-pound rookie defenseman. “Something hard hit me, and I looked down to see one of those metal change holders bus drivers carry,” Quinn said. “Unfortunately, there wasn’t any money in it.

Life would be better if the Leafs would make the playoffs. Life would be perfect if they’d win the Stanley Cup.