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CheerfulBender20 · 06-16-2021, 05:05 PM

***RE-PRINT***
***THE PLAYERS’ TRIBUNE***
***MILES O’BRIEN’S APOLOGY TO THE GOOD AND FAIR PEOPLE OF MONTREAL***

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I assure you, the good and fair people of Montreal, that I had nothing but the best of intentions on my first visit to the city of saints. I stand before you humbled and contrite, begging your forgiveness for a monumental misunderstanding. Some context is in order.

I started season fifty-nine on rocky footing. A crippling video game addiction hampered my ability to contribute to Maine’s success. While my teammates worked diligently to appease the Timber faithful, I battled my way through “The Game,” using my mind to manipulate frisbee like discs into spherical cones. Over two weeks of play in Portland, I acquired a meager ten TPE, excluding the generous giveaways from home office. Nothing is worse than an “energy guy” with no energy, and I gave benders everywhere a bad name with my shoddy and uninspired play.

I reformed my ways, however. Acquiring sixty-two TPE over the final three weeks of the season, I managed to play a small part in Maine’s round one victory over the Anaheim Outlaws. Indeed, I netted the game winner in the third tilt of the series. Optimistically, I felt the improvement in my play would merit a nod in the SHL draft’s later rounds. Ashamed of my unequal season fifty-nine effort, I had redemption at the forefront of my mind as I tuned into the draft - wherever I fell, the team that drafted me would get a steal.

But something unusual happened. Not only did sve7en call my name on draft night, but he did so in the second round! I had positive conversations with Montreal’s scouting department pre-draft, but I never truly expected to be taken so early. The crowd’s stunned silence cut through to my very core, dulling my exuberance. The headlines in Montreal wrote themselves.

Trentième? - Le Journal de Montréal
Patriotes Reach for LW O’Brien - Montreal Gazette
Ah bon? - La Presse

I had to change the people’s minds, convince them that Montreal’s faith in my potential was not misplaced. In my experience, there is one surefire way to endear yourself to the locals - speak the language. Armed with the Enterprise’s Universal Translator, I knew I would be able to converse perfectly with my new neighbors, no English required. I dreamt it all so clearly on the five hour greyhound to my introductory presser. Miles O’Brien fielding media questions in perfect French, the key to the city already in hand. The problem? The universal translator is not coded for French…

Where I come from, French has been a functionally defunct language for hundreds of years. Few understand it, and even fewer speak it; unbeknownst to me, not even the Universal Translator. I had no way of knowing that the translator’s algorithm would call an audible, opting to translate my thoughts into French’s closest syntactical match - Klingon.

It immediately went awry when I arrived at the Montreal Bus Terminal. I entered a café and ordered a coffee. The barista glared right through me, his stony gaze sending a shiver down my spine. I shook it off, “I guess I’ll just use the Keurig at the Hotel,” I thought.

A hearty “Bonjour!” I exclaimed to passerby on the rue Saint Paul, walking to my room at the Hotel Nelligan. Little did I know that that friendly “Bonjour” had actually been a menacing, guttural “nuqneH!” A crowd began to form, trailing me from the Hotel to the Belle Centre, their collective rage entirely lost on me.

Was it odd to see hundreds of locals at a second round prospect’s introductory presser? Yes. But this is Canada, “Hockey is a big deal here,” I rationalized. Was it equally bizarre to see them carrying rotting tomatoes and cabbages? Sure was. Couldn’t explain that one. Echoing previous remarks to the media, General Manager Dankoa gave me an extremely generous introduction to the press corps, after which he invited me to the lectern to give my prepared remarks.

They did not go well. The opening salvo was a particularly large cabbage, its putrid leaves making a bee-line for my head. “Merde!,” the crowd shouted, clearly upset at the mockery I had made of the French language. Eventually, the incoming fire became so intense that I made a hasty exit stage left, fleeing hundreds of ornery Quebecois.

I sought refuge at Notre-Dame Basilica and, through pure happenstance, stumbled upon a set of catacombs that led me back to the Montreal Bus Terminal. Bemused and dejected, I made the journey back to Portland.

It’s been about a week since “The Incident,” and after much reflection, I can only offer the following: I swear to redeem myself through my play. Every battle on the boards, back-check, and forecheck will elicit nothing less than one-hundred percent effort. I will do everything in my power to support my fellow rookies: Stan Din’desque, Zak Wilson, and Roderick Banes. Together we will bring a championship to the good and fair people of Montreal.

Vive Montréal!

854 Words