Monday morning. 5:45 a.m. The alarm goes off in the bedroom of NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman. His eyes slowly open, as Kenny Rogers innocently croons “Coward of the County” over the airwaves.
It is the dawn of another workweek. After his scheduled morning shower, shave, and waste elimination, Commissioner Bettman gets dressed in Black Suit No. 7. Mrs. Bettman has preselected a tastefully red-striped tie, which she has helpfully draped in its customary location next to his shoes. Which have been freshly polished. The Commissioner kisses his sleeping wife gently on the forehead, precisely twenty-three millimeters below the hairline and fifteen millimeters to the right of center. Mrs. Bettman does not stir, as the nerve receptors in this particular patch of skin have been dead for some time (it was, in fact, the location of her first Botox injection. Also, the second, third, and fourth).