They walked in tired. Not just from the flight or the games or the final whistle—but from the weight. You could hear it in Chris MacFarland’s voice before he even got to the part about Ray Bennett.
“Today we made a difficult decision… we’re going to move on from a good hockey man and a good person and a good coach.”
That’s how these things start. With decency. Politeness. A calm professional tone that masks the fact that someone just got kicked off the boat at sea. Ray Bennett didn’t forget how to coach power plays. But when your man-advantage sputters out like a cigarette in the wind during a playoff series, someone’s going to pay for it. So Ray’s gone. And that’s the business.
The Avalanche front office has always had that perfect Colorado sheen—stoic, sharp, expensive. Sakic and MacFarland don’t raise voices. They don’t flail. But make no mistake—this is a kitchen after the fire. They thought this team could win the Cup. Hell, they thought it should.
They said it flat out: this one stings. And not because of luck, or bounces, or refs. Because it was there. Three third-period leads with twelve minutes left. Five-on-five dominance. A locker room full of guys who, by all accounts, were dialed the hell in. But every time the game tilted into chaos—penalties, momentum swings, moments that define series—the other team found their finish. And the Avs found nothing.
It wasn’t effort. It wasn’t goaltending. It wasn’t a culture problem or a team that quit. This wasn’t a slow-motion car crash. It was surgical. Clean. They died in the margins.
Somehow, the most clinical detail of all may have been the part about Mikko Rantanen. The kind of player whose name fills jerseys and highlight reels, gone in a trade that wasn’t about ego or revenge—it was about math.
“Just paying three high-end guys and not having a surrounding cast wasn’t going to get it done.”
That’s how dynasties unravel now. Not with scandal. With spreadsheets. The Avalanche won in 2022 because they had everything: stars, depth, goaltending, health. But the price of winning is that everyone expects it again. Same stars, less depth. Same pressure, more weight.
They talk about “the window” like it’s a real thing. Like it’s made of glass, or maybe steel. But it’s more like breath on a mirror—fleeting, fragile, and invisible unless you know what to look for. MacFarland and Sakic know. You don’t get to have Nathan MacKinnon and Cale Makar forever. You don’t get Gabe Landeskog’s knees at full tilt for long, if ever again. You push now, or you waste it.
And they did push. Trades, tweaks, reinforcements down the middle and in net. They liked this team—loved this team after the deadline. You could hear it in the way they talked about their guys. The belief was real. That’s what makes it worse.
There’s no scandal here. No betrayal. No excuses. Just missed execution and a power play that went cold when it needed to burn.
That’s the part that haunts. Because for all the praise they gave Dallas—and it was generous, respectful, sincere—there was a thread of disbelief under it all. Like they still can’t quite believe they’re doing this press conference instead of prepping for the next round.
“Sometimes it’s just not going your way,” they said.
Maybe. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that cruel version of hockey truth that doesn’t make for good press releases: the best team on paper doesn’t always get to keep playing. And when you’re stuck watching a team you know you could’ve beaten move on, the sting becomes something else entirely. Something personal.
They’ll say the right things. They did. About exits, and contracts, and looking ahead. But there’s a difference between being out of the playoffs and being out of excuses.
The Avalanche still have their stars. Still have a room full of talent, leadership, and bruised belief. But they don’t have time. Not the kind that matters.
So yeah, this one stings. But it should. Because when you’re that close, pain is the proof you cared enough to feel it.