If the latest morsel of gossip contains so much as a sliver of truth, I'm not sure I'd blame Evander Kane for wanting to put Winnipeg and the Jets in his rear-view mirror.
I mean, the kid hadn't even arrived in that frost-bitten, mosquito-infested burg and already a considerable number of local yokels were pooh-poohing him as a thoughtless, disrespectful punk with no sense of tradition or history.
His crime? He wanted to wear uniform No. 9.
Oh, such horror. Such nerve. Such arrogance. It was as if Kane had said he was going to use the Shroud of Turin for a painting drop cloth.
In Jets' lore, you see, sweater No. 9 is a sacred piece of linen.
Robert Marvin Hull wore it and, because the Golden Jet put River