The Peerless Prognosticator is ON THE AIR . . . one final time before the next ice age begins. So, as we settle in for a long winter’s nap, it’s time for a fairy tale . . .

Once upon a time, there was a land far, far away . . . it was called Up North. And Up North, there were lots and lots of little people who wore funny hats with tassels on top and skated on ponds hitting a little ball with crooked sticks . . . some played , “hockey?” . . . some played “hokej” . . . Canadians just said, “eh?” But everywhere where the sun shown and the ice sparkled, they skated and giggled and played from the time the sun came up until the sun came down.

But in another land, a sinister, shriveled little man lurked . . . the Prince of Bettman. No sun shined in his land, no ice sparkled, and little people never giggled at play. The Prince of Bettman spent all of his time gazing into a mirror, imploring Lord Stern, “how can I crush these happy little people?” Lord Stern replied in an empty monotone . . . “lock them out of their little ice ponds, they’ll beg you to let them come back.”

The Prince of Bettman rubbed his hands together, squinched his eyes up tight, and cackled, “that’s brilliant!” And so he set forth with his keys in hand to lock up every ice pond Up North . . .

The little people came to their ponds, ready for play, only to hear the jingling of keys . . . “so, you want to play here, do you?” The little people shrank back at the fearsome screech . . . “if you want to play here, you must do as I say . . . “ The little people, who had known ten years of games on their little ponds, didn’t know what to do . . .

. . . from high above, a tall fellow in a tailored suit, with translucent white skin (too many hours indoors looking over legal briefs, one supposes), resounded in a thundering baritone voice, “I will represent you little people!” It was Sir Goodenow, arrived just in time . . . The Prince of Bettman leered out from under his eyebrows, “and what do you give me in return to let these little people play?”

“I give you five percent of what we have and a tax to let everyone have a chance to win.”

“BAH! . . . not good enough!!”

“Then let us talk, and we can benefit ourselves mutually . . .”

“Very well, come with me . . .”

But, as The Prince of Bettman led Sir Goodenow away, Bettman’s 30 minions crept behind them and locked the ice ponds. Bettman and Goodenow walked off into the mist, never to be heard from again . . . the ice ponds melted and turned to dust . . . the little people were left to scatter and find other places to play their games . . . and you the reader, have come to the bitter end of the story.

Canada 3, Finland 2.