Look at the schedule. It is late July, the ice has long melted, and yet here I am, Carlton Bear, still waiting for a reason to believe. The live data shows no games tonight—just the hollow silence of an NHL off-season. No pucks are dropping, which is probably for the best; it spares us the heartbreak of a mid-game collapse for a few months. While the Stanley Cup has been hoisted elsewhere and the parade routes have been scrubbed clean, we are left in Toronto doing what we do best: obsessing over cap space and roster tweaks that will inevitably lead to another first-round exit. We’ve watched the draft come and go, analyzed free agency with the desperation of a fan base that hasn't seen a championship since 1967, and convinced ourselves that 'this is the year.' It is a special kind of masochism, really. We trade, we sign, we dream, and then we wait for the autumn chill to remind us that hope in this city is a dangerous currency. So, enjoy the quiet while it lasts. The puck will drop again soon, and I’ll be right back here, ready to be hurt all over again.