On a day when the Edmonton Oilers retired the number of my first childhood hero, they traded away my latest favorite. I was 9 when I watched the Oilers beat Boston 4-1 in 1990 to win their fifth Stanley Cup, the only one I was old enough to remember. Last year they were within one game of adding a sixth, and if they had do so Ryan Smyth would still be an Oiler, with a contract until retirement, and on the list of future jersey retirement ceremonies. I remember the shot of Mark Messier hoisting the Stanley Cup in 1990, flanked by Kevin Lowe and Jari Kurri, though now it seems like a different lifetime. Yet as though it was yesterday, I remember Ryan Smyth's lost teeth and overtime assist against San Jose, playing with the flu against Anaheim, and his glorious end to end rush in Game 6 of the Finals. These were supposed to be the start of a new set of memories, a first chapter in a new era of economic equality where the Oilers would content once again. Instead, since that empty net goal in Game 7, it's been nothing but repeated kicks in the teeth. Pronger, Spacek, Peca, Laraque, Bergeron, Samsonov, and now Smyth are gone, with no promise left but that of another rebuilding project.

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

-Rudyard Kipling