Early in the morning, deep in the Sawtooth Wilderness of Idaho during the twilight hours normally reserved for the dark struggles of nocturnal hunters and their prey, our hero the aging yet young at heart curmudgeon awakes with a startling realization that promises to ruin his much needed vacation slumber for the balance of the clear alpine night. His hockey team, the much maligned yet magnificent Coyotes, had nearly finally been destroyed by the well-funded and overly lawyered self-appointed guardians of the constitution as seen through the eyes of their deeply pocketed constituency and board members Goldwater Institute. How close they had come to finally being doomed to slave away in the virtual salt mines of Quebec City was really known to only a few, and he was one of them. So pull up a stump around this campfire, my friends, while I assume the role of our hero, dispense with the dark and stormy night verbosity and describe how only a perfect storm of incompetence, smugness and the rising up of social media connected friends and hockey fans kept the Coyotes in Glendale, AZ, or at least provided the possibility of that result to the NHL, Glendale and the Jamison group.

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