Gather 'round, kids. For it's time for a Halloween hockey story...
(apologies to Washington Irving)
*ahem*
In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Rocky Mountains, at that broad expansion of the river denominated the Bow, there lies a small market town which is generally known by the name of Calgary. Within there is a small arena which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook murmurs past it and, with the occasional whistle of a linesman or dropping of a popcorn bag, is almost the only sound that ever breaks the uniform tranquillity. From the listless repose of the place, this sequestered barn has long been known by the name of Sleepy Saddledome, which abounds with local tales, haunted concourses, and game-night superstitions.
The dominant spirit that haunts this enchanted rink is the apparition of a felt-like figure on horseback without restraint. It is said to be the ghost of a drunken fanatic, whose brains had been carried away by a pint of heroin beer in some nameless battle during the pre-season, and who is ever seen by the faithful, hurrying along in the gloom of the Stampede Grounds. Some allege that the lunatic rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of a win. The spectre is known, at all the CP firesides, by the name of the Senseless Puppet of Sleepy Hollow.
Go Flames