Slipping into a deep sleep, tucked in his duvet, his shoulder rests comfortably. His eyes begin flickering back and forth under their lids and his lips murmur in his unconscious state.

“Yeah, yeah, Savy. Feed, feed, wooooo! Nice pass, Marc. Deno, way ta keep it in at the point...”

Driving through the streets of Boston, his car radio blurts out “...and the Boston Bruins are Eastern Conference champions, led by their captain Zdeno Chara, Marc Savard, and the young sniper Phil Kessel...”

Click.

The blue floodlights flash at the ACC as he steps on the ice in front of 20,000 cheering Leafs fans and slowly they fade. He is on the ice alone, looking for his team, waiting for a pass, alone on a rush down the ice. It's one-on-five. Pucks bounce in his own net off helmets, off legs, and past a faceless goalie.

His legs jump under his covers as he mumbles, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home! But the red slippers fail to work!...Noooooo!”

Waking up abruptly and sitting up in his bed, sweat dripping down his brow, he looks out the window seeing the CN Tower like a huge middle finger flipping off the ACC from the Toronto skyline and back in his face.

He moans, “What the hell am I doing in Toronto? I had such a promising career...Oh.”

One lone tear rolls down his cheek as he lays back to try and sleep again.

Not far from the truth, I'd bet!