“Okay, got it,” said Nashville Predators co-owner, country star Vince Gill. He got up from the couch to go to the fridge to make himself a sandwich. He’d just heard the latest result from the Predators’ woeful season and had a look of determination in his eyes.
“Honey, what is it?” said singer Amy Grant, Gill’s wife and also co-owner of the Predators. She was washing the dishes because Gill could never use the dishwasher properly.
“The stupid Predators lost again.” Anger seethed from Gill’s voice.
“Really? I thought we had a great team…what happened now?”
“The team got outshot 50-10 by the Chicago Blackhawks and lost 4-2. I’m at wit’s end here.”
“It’s only ten games…all isn’t lost.” Grant was calm, hoping her tone could relax her husband but it wasn’t going anywhere.
“We need to make a change.”
“It’s still early, Vince. We can turn things around.”
“Amy, the only team we’ve beaten are the Pittsburgh Penguins. You tell me how we don’t need a change.”
Gill made a few calls. Tomorrow he would introduce the team’s new General Manager, a person Gill knew was “out of this world.” He felt reassured. Grant, however, thought Gill was crazy and wasn’t sure this direction was the right one for the team, but she agreed something had to be done. Nashville wasn’t supposed to be 1-9.
The next day, a throng of reporters gathered for a noon hour press conference at the Sommet Centre. They were kept in the dark about the Predators’ new GM, as the team released no information prior to today and the new GM was someone who lived in complete seclusion. Mystery abounded the room, but it was one filled with excitement- the press were told this person would be nothing like they’d ever seen before.
They were right.
From behind the curtain stepped a tall, imposing man. He was wearing a trench coat over top of a suit and dress pants, and completed the look with a top hat, with a black mask completely covering his face. Reporters were intrigued but also wondered how the man wasn’t hot in Nashville’s sweltering heat.
“Hello puny Earthlings,” said the man approaching the microphone, not even bothering to sit down. He spoke with a dark, haunting robotic voice. “I am Enwar. I am your new General Manager. I come from the planet of Ravorie and thoroughly enjoy your brand of hockey. It has come to my attention that your team is not fit for human administration so I have come in to show you how people on other planets get it done. Assistant GM Paul Fenton will be here to answer any questions. Good day.” Enwar stepped away from the microphone and back behind the curtain, not even acknowledging the reporters’ incessant pleas for him to answer questions.
Fenton sat down behind the microphone to answer questions, but none were forthcoming. Everyone was in shock at what they saw, and openly wondered if, indeed, if the Predators’ sanity had also left this world.
Finally, one brave reporter piped a question to Fenton. “Yes?” answered Fenton, with baited breath.
“Is Enwar really from another planet or is this all a game?” asked the reporter, who asked the question everyone else in the room was thinking.
“They don’t tell me much,” replied Fenton, “but I have been to his planet, so, yes, he is extraterrestrial.”
“Do you expect us to believe that you’ve hired an alien to run a hockey team?”
“We’re 1-9. We only defeated the Pittsburgh Penguins. At this stage, we need to try anything. Have a good day.” Fenton walked away from the microphone and formally ended the press conference, but not the questions.