Suppose you weren't living your terrible lives right now, but were transported back in time to right before you went through puberty. The devil himself comes to you and offers you a bargain: you can be the best player in the NHL for a decade if you just sign this contract in your own blood and give up your soul. Let's assume the metaphysics here. There's literally a devil, and you literally have a soul you can barter away.
You think about Gretzky and Lemieux and LaFleur and Howe and Richard. You decide, yup, I'm gonna do this. So you say, "Yes, Satan, I'll sign this contract. Here's my soul." Poof, you're turned into Sidney Crosby, and the Devil is all "LOL you." Then walks away. You turn out to be the most boring generational talent in the sport. The kind of player whose most ardent fans are the ones who don't like "ethnic" food because its too spicy. The kind of fans who would willingly protest in support of the police. The kind that just vaguely don't like PK Subban.
Everyone respects your talent, but nobody really loves you with any real passion. You're a tastefully decorated apartment on Pintrest where everything fits together perfectly but nobody wants to live there. You're the best quality and most expensive sheets at JC Penny. You're every Grammy winner ever combined. You're a nice dinner at a restaurant on a pier. You're missionary position, and only missionary position, sex.
You are, in a word, mayonnaise. "Sorry, sport," the devil cackles. "Shoulda spelled things out in the fine print."
Prediction: The Sharks fall asleep whenever Crosby is on the ice, lose 17-10 because Fleury is in net.