The first thing you need to understand about the Toronto Maple Leafs is that they are not just a hockey team. They are a belief system. A civic religion. A test of patience so prolonged and painful that sainthood ought to be conferred upon their most loyal fans—if not for virtue, then certainly for suffering.
The team began in 1917 as the Toronto Arenas, changed names to the St. Patricks, and then finally became the Maple Leafs in 1927, a moniker chosen by new owner Conn Smythe, a man as revered in Leafs lore as any of the players who wore the sweater. Smythe, who had served in World War I, chose the name to honor Canadian soldiers. The maple leaf—simple, national, enduring. It was a name not just for a team, but for a cause.
The early years were golden. With players like Charlie Conacher, King Clancy, and Turk Broda, the Leafs won Stanley Cups in the 1930s and 1940s. The apex came in the 1960s. Under coach Punch Imlach and with the legendary leadership of George Armstrong (no relation, though I confess I’d claim it if I could), the Leafs won four Cups in six years, culminating in the 1967 victory over Montreal. That was the year of Canada’s centennial—a perfect patriotic capstone. What no one knew then was that it would also be the last time the Leafs hoisted Lord Stanley’s silver chalice.
Since 1967, the Leafs have been locked in a kind of Homeric struggle—Odyssean in its length and absurdity. They have wandered through decades of drafts, trades, and playoff collapses that border on tragicomic. There was Harold Ballard, the owner who turned the Gardens into a soap opera. There were the cursed years when Wendel Clark fought with valor but without results. Doug Gilmour’s magic run in the early '90s brought hope, only to be dashed by high sticks and higher expectations.
There were glimpses of greatness. Mats Sundin's quiet brilliance. The emergence of a new generation in the 2010s: Auston Matthews, Mitch Marner, and William Nylander—young, talented, charismatic. The team sparkled in the regular season, teased in the playoffs, and then, almost without fail, exited with the sigh of a nation echoing behind them.
And yet—the stands are full. The streets buzz. The jerseys are worn with pride and pain in equal measure. Because the Toronto Maple Leafs are not about success, at least not lately. They are about identity. To be a Leafs fan is to live in hope, to dwell in memory, and to wait. Always to wait.
Standing outside Scotiabank Arena, watching fans pile in beneath banners that haven’t changed since Trudeau the Elder was Prime Minister, you can’t help but feel something religious in the air. Maybe it’s madness. Maybe it’s devotion. Maybe the two are the same.
One day—perhaps next year, perhaps never—the drought will end. But even if it doesn’t, the Leafs will endure. Not because of what they win, but because of what they mean. A city. A country. A curse. A dream.