Travel

Montreal

Montreal is hockey. Here is a letter to Bettman, the NHL commissioner, written during the strike.

F Cathcart House
London UK
SW10 9NW

October 1, 1994

To all those who share in my sorrow,

What a day! The first of October, nineteen ninety-four. Strike. A hockey strike. Not that it will affect me as much as it would have. Before, it would have devastated me. Especially, if I were in Montreal and still in possession of the season tickets. Wow! What a year I spent at Marianopolis, all of five minutes from the Forum.

What a great parking spot that was at the bottom of the staircase. On a good slippery day you could slide all the way to the corner of Atwater and Sherbrooke. And then, boom. You were swept away by the tide of excitement. The policeman directing traffic. The stream of people crossing from right to left. The media trucks all parked in a tight row.

You could feel the excitement. Especially on a Saturday night. Although most Saturdays the place to park was down the hill at Lionel Groulx. From there it's just a short walk past the leather stores and under that bridge and boom, la boite was in sight.

But approaching from the North had its own special feeling. Particularly on a weeknight. A Monday or Tuesday night. Thursday was a bad night because Le Hockey du Jeudi Soir was a good alternative. Tuesdays. They were special. Suits from all over. Westmount and the East End. West Islanders as well as Lavalois. Secretaries, girlfriends, out-of-town business associates. Straight from Japan and into the Forum before a late night stop at Chez Paree.

Tuesday night traffic is pretty light. Some poor fools forget about the game and try to cross town and get stuck in the melee. You snicker at them as you walk by as they tap their fingers on the steering wheel. A salt truck passes. You scurry across the street to make sure that the new boots you got on Cote Vertu last Saturday don't get ruined. The wind picks up one last time. Looking at the sky, you catch a few flakes on your tongue. But the smell is upon you.

Some people like to cross at De Maisonneuve. Others prefer to wait and do the proper thing. McDonald's. There's no time, tonight: it's a 7:35 start. You still cross with the huge pack of people. Generally, you want to have your ticket out and ready, taking one last look at it just as you did all day. Grant your companion the pleasure as well and pass them their ticket. Especially if they're from out of town. They should at least see it.

Three quarters the way across the street, the first scalper greets you. "Who's selling?" Another, "Who's selling tickets?" It's getting late so many of the cries have changed into "Who needs?" or "Who's buying?" or my personal favourite, "I got two good reds." It must be said in that perfectly ambiguous Montreal accent. In English but with such a strong taste of French that you suspect but definitely English.

One time in particular comes to mind. After negotiating a two reds for three whites swap, two out-of-towners this night, the guy (for he would want to be referred to by those deific three letters) held back. He started speaking French. I came back at him with a good if not perfect Quebecois. The tickets were mine. Straight up. But I digress.

So there you are. Ticket in hand, slush on your feet, ears slightly cold and heart beating like organ-simulated thunder. You step in. The queue is always five people long. Never more. Never less. Montrealers know. You don't want to be in the short queue. You want to see the guy with the blues in front of you. The girlfriend with spiked heels trailing along. You get to the gate and boom, you're counted. Precisely at that moment you forget that you are with someone. The programme lady is in your face and lights and escalators are everywhere. This is precisely the time not to lose sight of your companion but you always do. It's like exiting a tunnel into the bright daylight. Or entering a Las Vegas casino in the middle of the night. Overwhelming.

You turn around, perhaps only because you half-heard someone calling your name. Your companion wants to give you a disapproving look but can't, so overwhelmed are they. Pictures of the Rocket. Old sticks. The lounge. The action. Seconds later, they are dragged onto the escalator precisely nine steps to the left of the entrance. Here's where the first words are uttered. It's a little time out, not much to see. Either it's "We should make the opening face off," or "I love to kiss on this escalator" or "This, this is Montreal!" depending on the occasion. At the top, a few paces forward and bang a sharp right avoiding the metal rail that never gets painted. You don't even notice the red-jacketed usher. The look on a person's face says it all. "I need help," or "I know exactly where I have to go."

Always go first. This way, you always have the choice of which seat in the pair to take. The rule is simple, take the one closest to centre ice. If you're lucky, you have a seat on the South side, the side the Canadiens attack in both the first and third periods. But, if you're on the North end, you better hope Roy or Dryden is in net. God forbid it goes into OT because the incomprehensible NHL doesn't switch ends for overtime in the regular season. Playoffs is a different story.

Seated. You're asked to stand. American anthem. Canadian anthem. "God keep our land." Inserted into the national anthem by Roger Doucet singing in this same place. The cheers that drown out the voice always begin here. Only he had the power to get the "Glorious and free" out. In the playoffs, the first "Canada" is when the crowd gets the upper hand. Game seven, well, let's just hope you remember the words.

Puck drops. Colours flash by. Whites and reds and blacks and golds crossing reds and blues on white. With zebras going back and forth. Wood sticks. Aluminum sticks. Jofa helmets are the easiest to spot. Look for number ten, but alas, he's retired or on the bench. The first rush generates a mild cheer. You look up and see that 20% of the crowd is still getting a smoke. And all the empties are red. Empty whites and certainly blues are hard to spot.

Is that a friend of yours across the ice? It's just far enough so you can't make out the face. "Oh, I went to school with him. Der, number terty-two for dem. Nice kid. Shot too much," you overhear someone boast (or complain, if you prefer) as though they played with the guy. Could be true.

Ref makes his first bad call or even worse, first non-call. A shrieking complaint in a mixture of English and church references in French shocks the person next to you. "What did he say?" you overhear in an American accent somewhere. A quick peek around. Who's the prettiest girl in view? Only about seventeen but she's a looker. You think she's looking at you. Thing is you're in between her and Roy. If your she's a she, she gets upset. But she knows others are looking at her. She's getting ready for the intermission.

A power play, wasted. Seats are full now, you notice. A lot of blue in the crowd. A quick rush at Roy a great save. You're still on your feet when the play turns the other way and a two-on-one lifts the crowd. "Shoot," yells someone. "Shoot the biscuit." He passes. A flip pass which is banged in the empty side. "Scores." A stick goes up and a moderate and expected celebration takes place on the ice. The fans don't go crazy but try out their lungs. They're in good form.

Halfway through the first period, the world is as it should be, the Habs up 1-0. The period is drawing to a close. Another non-call and a lucky bounce and a blistering shot by a black-clad player. Initial save made but the rebound goes in. Your eyes shift to the red light and then furiously to the ref to see if he will allow this travesty. He does. You look up to your right and see the replay all while saying out loud, "Garbage goal." "Lucky" flashes on the big screen. Roy smacks his goalstick lightly against the crossbar. He had no chance. Scratch that. He, and only he had a chance. He wanted another shutout. He tries to absorb all the blame but no one obliges.

Period ends, whispers shuffles and smokes. "They got lucky." "Ref blew the call." "Maudit Boston." "Calisse, where did he learn to shoot like that." The comments change. "Hey, you like that flip pass?" "Just like last week when I set up Ti-Rick." "Did Carbo hit the post on that wrist shot?" And finally they settle in, "You drinking Brador? What Molson's not good enough for you any more?" "Did you go to the movies?" "Where's your blonde (this last word said in French)?" "I got these new tires." "We're going to Crescent tonight, right?"

Short queue in the toilette. Seated two minutes early, you can be one of the first to boo the refs as they step onto the ice. This is where most of the conversation takes place. About non-hockey stuff. Because when the game is on, eyes are not diverted. Talk better be about something you saw or missed. Every something must start with a "Did you see that..." or "Man, can you believe...." or "Look at that...." for it to be listened to.

Second period. Payback. Canadiens scoring in your end. Stats show they score more goals in the second than any other, by far. So they do. Truth be told, most people are hoping it stays close. But most others make a lot of noise. Fifteen minutes later and a third goal comes off a pretty shot. Icing on the cake. Game over. Third period was a shoe-in.

Intermission comes and goes. More talk about the night's activities than earlier.

A Bruin kicks one in. But it goes in off a Montreal defenceman's skate so instant replay calls it a goal. Three-two. Ten minutes left. Plenty of time. Habs looked tired, disorganised. B's pour it on. Roy is Roy. Glove, leg, glove. "Derniere minute de jeu dans la troisieme periode..." Their goalie leaves the net. A Hab rookie shoots it down the ice and misses. Icing.

One last face-off. Tension is thick. Thick as Roy's left pad as it stops a Bourque drive. Horn goes. We win. We win.

"Wait, wait. Three stars," you explain to your companion. Your guess is only one star off. "Roy, Carbo, Bourque." You thought Neely played better. But he's not French-Canadian you remember.

Filing out, you find the exit fast. No need to overstay your welcome. Just get out. And wait for the next non-descript, snowy, regular Tuesday when there's a bit of ice inside a boxy building in the heart of the city just waiting to thrill.

I wonder when that will be.

Today is a sad day.

Remorsefully,

Zia