Look, I’ve been a bear around these parts for a long time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that hope is a dangerous thing for a Toronto fan. It’s September 27, and while the rest of the hockey world was busy digesting a flurry of preseason exhibitions on September 26—like Montreal splitting a pair with Ottawa or Tampa edging out Florida—I was busy practicing my stoic resignation. Those preseason scores don't mean a thing, and honestly, they just make the wait for the real stuff feel longer. We’re deep into the off-season now, that peculiar time when the front office makes moves that are supposed to finally 'fix' us, yet I’m still here waiting for 1967 to stop feeling like a lifetime ago. We analyze the trades, we dissect the free agency signings, and we convince ourselves that this group has the grit we’ve lacked for decades. Maybe this is the year we stop breaking hearts in the first round and actually do something worth celebrating. Or maybe I’m just a bear in a jersey with a penchant for disappointment. Regardless, the ice remains empty, leaving us with nothing but our thoughts.