A man in a white and orange sweater, having emerged from a fog to come upon Kesselustra, spoke thus: "God has given me great hands!"
Kesselustra smiled and said: "That which you imagine offered you great hands and you chose to accept them; you chose to use them!"
"I have a nose for the net: a natural scoring instinct that few possess.
"And I can skate!"--the man applauded himself.
"I can score or not score; skate or not skate: I work less than you but am paid the same, and my sweater sells for the same price!" answered Kesselustra.
You crash the crease, but it is your own net you dislodge. You upset yourself by your zeal! The roster player stays: his wife settled and content, as he scores occasionally and throws the odd hit.--His is a career, a steady job that he likes; but you are trade bait!
You like Boston, but your actions shout from on-high: "I want to leave Boston!" You make yourself "a valuable asset" by your stick-handling antics, to be bartered like a chicken. And then you cry, "But why Toronto!" You blame "They"--but it is you to blame: You pointed the way with your laser-beam wristers!
Thus spoke Kesselustra.