A Thrashers Christmas Carol Pt. 1

** I would give apologies to Charles Dickens, but I never really liked the guy, so screw him. **

It was a cold and windy night in Atlanta late December of 2008. Don Waddell pulled his bedcovers tight under his chin as he tried to banish thoughts of the Thrashers abysmal game against the Maple Leafs from his head.

The wind whipping by the windows howled and the house creaked and moaned in the face of wintry gales. On the precipice of sleep, Waddell's mind wandered though a list of players that other teams had given up on but that he might be able to obtain in exchange for a bit of his team's future. Perhaps next year's first round draft pick in exchange for Jamie Heward? So lost was he in these Milbury-esque fantasies that he almost missed a slight change in the lonesome sound of the wind.

Why, that sounded just like the night air was calling his name. But that's insane. He must have dozed off and dreamed of Paul Coffey crying out to him for a free agent contract to make a comeback. But wait, there it was again. More distinctly this time. The sound was so mournful and dreary.

When he heard it the third time, fear clawed its way up Waddell's spine, but all he could do was pull the sheets up tighter like a goalie's blocker. As he shut his eyes tight and told himself it was only a dream, he heard footsteps outside his bedroom door.

The footsteps grew nearer, then the doorknob rotated with an unearthly creak. When the door swung ajar, the air from the hallway carried in a stench of old hockey pads, defeat, and... fishsticks.

"DON WADDELL!" This was no trick of the wind, but an authoritative voice commanding his attention. Shaking with fear, Waddell opened his eyes and gazed at the foot of his bed at the figure there before him.

"Curt Fraser? What the hell are you doing here?" Waddell asked.

"I have come to warn you of the comming of three spirits this night." Fraser replied.

"Wait a minute, you mean like in that Bill Murray movie, Scrooged? But I love Christmas, and you're not even dead, how can you be a ghost?"

"Well, I thought I was dead for a while, but it turns out I was just coaching for the Islanders. The inside of that arena is quieter than a tomb. And these are not Ebaneezer Scrooge's Christmas ghosts, but the Ghosts of Thrashers Seasons Past, Present, and Future."

"But why? Why am I being tormented by these spirits?" cried Waddell.

"When you have seen what they have to show you, then you will no longer need to ask that question. Now I must go, for the Ghost of Thrashers Seasons Past will be here anon."

"Anon? Curt, it's when you used words like that that Per Svartdvadet couldn't follow your coaching anymore" Waddell said, but before he had finished the sentence, Fraser's spirit was gone.

Check back soon for more of the story, as it will be continued by Big Shooter, Mortimer Peacock, and French Catalogues. For now, I'm Razor Catch Prey, wishing you all a Merry Christmas, and asking Santa for a playmaking power forward to play with the Czar.