It is June 24, 2026, and while the league has games on the docket tonight—Winnipeg is heading to Edmonton, and Vegas is visiting Los Angeles—I find myself staring blankly at the screen. These teams are actually playing meaningful hockey while we Leafs fans have already transitioned into our favorite annual tradition: painful introspection and aggressive salary cap math. It’s hard to watch other fanbases experience joy while we continue to treat 1967 like a painful, recurring nightmare rather than a historical footnote. As the NHL moves through this stretch of games, I am left wondering, as always, what kind of miracle it will take to get us past the second round. Is it a roster shakeup? A new coaching philosophy? Or just the sheer, stubborn refusal of the universe to let us have nice things? The off-season is a desert of hope, and I am thirsty. We will inevitably hear rumors about trades and free-agent splashes that promise to finally put us over the top. I’ll act skeptical, of course, but deep down, I’ve already bought the jersey for next season. God help me, I am ready to be hurt again.