Tom Fiddler strides onto stage to the sound of middling applause. It was an early flight that got him here and he had not yet wrested control of himself from Sleepy Carl, his bed-time alter ego. Groggy, hair matted on the side, the warm glow of half a flask of whisky inside his stomach. A single half-smoked, unlit cigarette hangs from his lip. Tom Fiddler is well dressed, but it looks like he might have gotten into a fight, although he had not. Unless you count the fight of getting out of bed at 3 am to fly down to some podunk school in detroit.

"if you dream it, you can learn it", He mumbles. A long pause as he stares at the mute faces of so many children. Did any of them even know who he was? He played for Tampa Bay, after all, not exactly a memorable team for kids to follow. He walks off stage, rips a check from the fingers of a stunned principal. Mission accomplished, children inspired. He returned home.