Jonathan Crowe: Who'd have thought my hockey passion would follow me here?
Next season the Montreal Canadiens farm team is moving to St. John's. A chat with former premier and local hockey mogul Danny Williams got me thinking about why I've been a fan of the Montreal Canadiens for the last 45 years.
Back then, becoming a Habs fan didn't have a whole lot to do about hockey. It had everything to do with fitting in and surviving my first couple of years as a new Canadian.
I wasn't born with skates on my feet. I was born in 1960 in the East African nation of Kenya. For the first eight years of my life, the beach and the swimming pool were the places where I played.
Sometime in the late Sixties, my parents started talking about getting out of Kenya. We left Africa for good in 1968. While my mother, my sister and I languished with grandparents in the U.K., my dad went job-hunting in Canada.
After months of looking, he was hired by Wabush Mines. The week before Christmas, we touched down in Sept-Îles, Que. It was cold on the apron that morning — -40 C, at least. I remember my nostrils sticking together as I took my first breath on the plane's steps. As for the snow, we'd never seen anything like it.
A game like no other
The next thing that hit my consciousness was hockey — I'd never seen a game like it, either.
It was all over the TV, La Soiree du Hockey was on the French channel on Wednesday nights. The games were called by René Lecavalier. I couldn't understand a word, but I got the passion and the poetry of it. The words flowed out of Lecavalier like maple syrup as he described the exploits of Canadiens greats like Jean Beliveau, Yvan Cournoyer and Serge Savard.
Hockey was my in, my way of being accepted. It was my passport to friendships and a passion I've never lost.
My first French words were "le but!" and "rudesse" ... much more poetic than "roughing."
On Saturday nights, Hockey Night in Canada's elegant Danny Gallivan called the play in English. Gallivan's turn of phrase was unique. Shots weren't blocked; instead, the puck got caught up in "Lapointe's paraphernalia." Serge Savard executed "Savardian Spinerramas" and Habs goalie Rogie Vachon made "scintillating saves."
The nine-year-old me was hooked. Addicted to the language, riveted by the action, and dying to take my first steps on the ice.
Hockey was my in, my way of being accepted. It was my passport to friendships and a passion I've never lost.
Within two weeks of being in Canada, I had skates. My sister and I would skate from the house to the local outdoor rink on the packed snow that covered our street from October to May.
I remember how my steel skate blades would squeak on the ice. If you skated on your ankles like me, you'd be the goalie. The shinny game was always played with a real puck. I stopped a lot of pucks that first couple of winters. Thank God for padded snowsuits!
So much for my pro career
Let's make a long story short. I didn't make the NHL. Years later, as a midget-aged player, my buddy Vince Cardella and I were usually last in any skating drill. Punishment for that was picking up the litter in the dressing room. Vinnie and I filled a lot of garbage cans!
We lived in Sept-Îles for almost three years. In 1973, we moved almost 600 miles down the highway to the Montreal area, where my dad's new employer had Canadiens season tickets.
The Canadiens were rounding into a dynasty, on the cusp of winning five Stanley Cups through the next seven years. Every so often, if no one else in the office wanted them, Dad would bring two tickets home.
My buddy Vinnie and I would get to the old Forum for 6:30 p.m. and watch the Habs warm up. Lemaire, Lafleur, Robinson, Gainey, Dryden.
I'll never forget the swirl of red, white and blue on the ice below us. The smell of hot dogs, the chop of skate blades on the ice and the thwack of the puck off the Forum's old wooden seats as Lafleur or Lemaire shot high. This was the era before protective mesh above the glass.
Then the game. Remember, these were tickets nobody else in the office wanted, so the opposing team was usually doomed from the opening faceoff. The California Golden Seals or St. Louis Blues playing catchup all night. Those memories are like short snapshots, cement-footed defencemen trying to catch lightning in a bottle as Lafleur dangled the puck before them like live bait in front of a trout.
Yvan Cournoyer — "The Roadrunner" — faking a player to his knees and swooping in to victimize the visiting goalie. Larry Robinson — "Big Bird" — pounding an impudent forward with a clean but devastating check.
They owned the Cup
Those Habs owned the Stanley Cup in the 1970s. Through my early teens, they owned my heart.
There was a lapse through my late teens and early 20s: The Habs of the early Eighties were nothing to write home about. I even gave up playing for a while. Montreal's other distractions had me hooked for a while. There were brasseries to sneak into, girls to chase and dozens of great concerts to see at the Forum when the Habs were on the road.
I am not a religious man but I've heard how people come back to the church.
Well, I came back to the Habs in 1985 when I started my career as a production assistant at CBC in Montreal. I'd tag along to practice with shooters and reporters and watch the next generation of Canadiens.
For a time I worked on Hockey Night In Canada, cutting highlights of the out-of-town games. Then — surprise! The Canadiens won the Cup again in 1986. I was part of the media crush at Dorval Airport when the hungover Habs brought the Cup home from Calgary.
My job that day was to carry the gear for our cameraman as we chased the Canadiens across the airport parking lot. I was hooked on covering sports and hooked on the Habs again.
Now, almost 30 years on, there's a whiff of Stanley Cup in the air. Carey Price and P.K. Subban lead the most promising Canadiens team in years.
And next season, the Habs farm team is here, playing out of Mile One Centre.
I've been in St. John's for 27 years. Who'd have thought my passion would follow me here?
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