“Jaromir!” the press asks of me every day now during these Stanley Cup playoffs. “How? How is it you keep playing pro hockey at your advanced age of forty three?” HA! If they but knew — my years stretch not decades, but centuries, for I was born in the 1600s on the craggy shores of Scotland, an immortal, a HIGHLANDER.
I moved silently through the years, changing my identity each generation, honing my skills in swordplay, and in my downtime, puck possession. In today’s NHL, which has become softer than Kashmir silk, I merely face the boards with the puck and poke out my giant arse, giving me plenty of time to make a play.
I have lived a dozen lifetimes! I have been loved and hated. I was adored by the French as a gendarme under Louis XIV, cruelly despised as a Vizier to Sultan Ahmed III of the Ottoman Turks and not particularly well-liked when I played for the Capitals. All things shall pass.
One day shall come The Gathering, where I must put aside puck and stick, take up my broadsword and attempt to brutally behead my greatest immortal rival, the Kurgen, or as you may know him, “The Chara.” But for now, I bide my time with the Florida Panthers, and continue my quest to become Stanley Cup Champion. For this June, much like the timeless battle of immortals… THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE.