With his newfound sense of arrogance pulsing through the entire 4’7” of his stature, Commissioner Bettman returns to the microphone. He glances with a sneer at the nearly empty Pittsburgh Penguins table, takes a moment to reflect how he brought high-and-mighty Mario Lemieux under his iron will, and speaks into the mic:
“Pittsburgh, the next draft selection is yours to announce. Who …” he absentmindedly licked his lower lip “will be announcing your pick, please? Or shall I make your final selection of this draft for you?”
A few low groans emanated from the Penguins’ locale. The majority of their contingent packed up and followed Lemieux’s unceremonious ouster from the arena.
“Pittsburgh? We need a representative to make your selection,” Bettman purred.
None of the remaining lackeys moved.
Just as Bettman prepared himself to announce the forfeiture of their pick, a rotund image was seen making its way toward the Penguins table. Balancing around a dozen hot dogs, fried chicken, French fries, pork rinds, and a Christmas tree sized bowl of soft ice cream, Phil Kessel sat down at two empty places.
He noted the silent stares of team executives and looked up. “This is all complimentary, right?”
“Hello, Phil. It appears that you are the sole representative of …”
CRUNCH, CRUNCH, SMACK, GULP …
“Umm, Phil, could you stop eating for a …”
GOBBLE, GLORPH, MUMMMM, SLURP CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
“PHIL!!”
“What?”
“You seem to be the only representative of the Penguins.”
Kessel looks around slowly.
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, we would appreciate if you at least were on the podium when Pittsburgh’s final selection is made.”
“Up there?”
“Yes, Phil. Up here.”
As Kessel slowly rises from his chairs with a deep fried-smelling sigh, one of the interns whispers, “Mr. Kessel! Hey, Mr. Kessel!”
“Huh?”
“We have a name you can announce as the Penguins’ pick.”
"Yeah, uh, sure, I guess."
The young assistant takes a step to hand the paper to Kessel, when the girthful winger's mouth snapped open to many times a regular human's size. In the blink of an eye, he swallowed the poor acolyte whole.
Gasps and screams of horror fill the arena. Bettman remains unfazed.
"I'm a lawyer. I've seen worse."
After much commotion under the Penguins' table, punctuated by anxious screeching and flapping of the table skirt, a broken hockey stick is extended, a scrap of paper taped to its end.
"Please take this name up to announce, Mr. Kessel. And please don't eat us!"
Kessel licks 4 colours of sauce off his fingers before taking the paper, and slowly lurches toward the stairs.
“Wow, that is steep. So many stairs.”
“Phil, there are 3 steps. Aren’t you supposed to be a professional athlete?”
“It’s the off-season.”
After stopping twice, puffing noisily, Kessel finally reaches the top of the dais. He shuffles over to the microphone, gulping in air.
“(huff, huff) Pittsburgh (puff) -- woah, feeling light-headed – picks Elmer Soderblom, from (huff, huff, huff) what’s this word?”
“Frolunda of the Swedish Elite league”, the intern shouts.
“Frunundun of the Swedish meatball league. Am I done (huff, huff, HUUUFFFFFFFF)? Can I go now?”
“Sure, Phil. You can go.”