I sat there in the cold dust of my parents' basement in the east end of Toronto. The draft that I've known for years was still coming through the side door by the driveway, sneaking up and wriggling its way around my ankles as I sat next to my dad on the couch. There was a sense of calm as the purple-blue light of the television screen cast our shadows on the opposite wall and the calm hung in the balance as we prepared ourselves for the moment we gathered to see.

It was a Saturday in spring. It was the second round of the NHL playoffs but our favorite team wasn't involved. It was April 30, 2016. It was the draft lottery.