In one corner of the Garden rink last night stood the old man who has stoned Father Time's incessant breakaways, who has kept the notion that 40-year-old goaltenders are over the hill out of his net, who was looking to glove his fourth Stanley Cup and maybe, just maybe, skate off into the sunset as arguably the greatest of all time: Martin Brodeur. But at the opposite end of the Garden rink stood the man they call The King, who was looking to glove his first Stanley Cup at the end of a season in which he stood on his head in an effort to win the Vezina Trophy, the stylish, 30-year-old heart throb serenaded with chants of "MVP" and "Hen-rik" from an apoplectic Garden that was imploring him, pleading with him, to carry its hopes and dreams back to the future, back to 1994: The King, Henrik Lundqvist.