To skate or not to skate—that is the question:
Whether tis nobler in the rink to suffer
The checks and slashes of outrageous goons
Or play golf and swing away my troubles
And by retiring end them. To retire, to quit
No more—and by hanging up the skates we end
The aches, and the thousand clutches and grabs
That flesh is heir to. Tis an ending
Superstars can wish. To retire, to quit—
To quit, perchance to fish: ay, there's the rub,
For in that fishing boat what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off that frozen pond,
Must give us pause. There's the missing cup
That makes un-beautiful this long career.
For who would bear the days of training and practice,
The bad calls, the other stars who've won it,
The missed opportunities, the failed playoffs,
The inept front office, and the slugs
This patient star unworthily played with,
When I myself might my chances take and with
A contender sign? Who would blame me,
For having grunted and sweat for such a weary team,
But that the thought of golf and fishing,
Those pastimes from whose bourn
No retiree returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather pick up the stick
And play for others that we have not before?
But conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the blue blanc et rouge of my resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale blue and white of Toronto
And enterprise of holding the cup - that career moment -
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The aged Fletcher! Sage, for thy contract
Be all my remaining games played.
Where do I sign?
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