Joey enters Mike Babcock’s office with a burlap sack
Burlap Sack: rmf, fgh, sherpa rumf …
Babcock: Thanks Joey, just leave it there.
Joey leaves office. Babcock grabs a skate blade, walks over to the sack and slowly unties it.
Babcock: Hold it right there. You move, you’re forbidden to leave the defensive zone.
Cleary: Dahhh …
Babcock: We’re very disappointed in your scoring in this series, Number 11 …
Cleary: Coach, I can … uh … ?
Cleary: Uh, yes. When keep me …
Babcock smacks Cleary with the skate.
Babcock: No first-person pronouns!
Cleary: What? Words sound like I know them
Babcock: Don’t talk about yourself, dipshit!
Cleary: OK. When Number 11 stay back too long, Number 11 no can score.
Babcock: That doesn’t stop Holmstrom from scoring! He just parks his fat ass in shooting lanes and POOF! Twenty-five goals appear out of nowhere! Why can’t you do that, Number 11?
Cleary: Number 11, uh, does not have enough junk in trunk to um, stand there.
Babcock: Your vocabulary dwindling, Number 11?
Babcock: The list of words that you successfully employ, Number 11.
Cleary: Number 11 no know some of those words.
Babcock: You used to gainfully elucidate your position on various topics when you played on previous teams, Number 11. No one understood you through that thick Newfoundlandian accent, though. All inhabitants sound like Labradors. Unfortunately for you, your frontal cortex has been dormant for two years. We can’t have you thinking that you’re special. It should almost be complete, Number 11.
Cleary: But …
Babcock: Unless you score more, we will have no choice but to feed you to Maltby and Draper. And we wouldn’t want that, would we Number 11?
Cleary: But …
Babcock: Score or die, Number 11. Back in the sack!
Babcock has punched and knocked out Cleary. He presses a page button.
Joey, please clean up this mess in my office.