After his wife died, Harold Ballard moved lock, stock and barrelling personality into an apartment inside Maple Leaf Gardens. It was a spooky place — just one small window — dimly lit, with heavy curtains, a few table lamps giving off an amber glow and dominated by a large portrait of his late wife Dorothy. It felt like a mausoleum. He had his suite and he had his bunker, from which he watched his Toronto Maple Leafs, once an illustrious franchise, play some of the worst hockey in the history of the NHL. Ballard was responsible for that wreckage. Just...