Kaminsky (Dryden's Agent) had brought with him one of those push-and-pull table hockey games. You controlled the forwards and defensemen with rods that would go in and out and the goalie with a lever that would move side to side. It was similar to foosball. We played the game for close to an hour every day—Dryden, Kaminsky, and yours truly, as well as anyone else who would wander in. It felt like a college frat house. This entire time—starting with that first night we met in Moscow—Dryden had been schooling me on the wonders of international hockey and its beautiful, elegant cross-ice passing. Now facing me on the other side of the table, with his oversize glasses and looking like a college professor from central casting, all he was doing was jamming the rods in as hard as he could, trying to knock my players off their springs. I was stupefied. “Hey, Kenny, you’ve taught me this beautiful form of hockey and now you’re playing this muck-muck crap. When did you turn into a goon? You’ve become a goon!”