It’s been announced that Carey Price has signed a two-year deal with the Montreal Canadiens for an undisclosed amount, and finally that one lingering and nagging question of when he would ink his name on a new deal can finally be put to bed.

Now we can get down to the business of waiting to see who the captain will be and how quickly Andrei Markov can heal and be ready to lace ‘em up.

But it was the Price/contract situation that’s been the big news all along after Jaroslav Halak was sent to St. Louis. There was speculation that Price wouldn’t sign, that he’d go on strike, that he would play hardball with the team because he’s the number one designate. But it’s gotten done before training camp, which is a relief, and Price can now report to camp and start concentrating on upping his game.

Money talks are always disruptive but this saga is officially in the past now. Here’s hoping Carey Price earns his keep in a big way, and spends his new raise, whatever it is, wisely.

I don’t expect anyone to get this and I think this is finally going to be where I stump everyone.

Who is this guy?

Oh, you want a hint?

He’s Russian, the picture was taken in St. Petersburg in 1994, and hockey is involved.

Okay, one more hint;  1972

I’ll give the answer tomorrow.

For 20 years I drove tractor trailers throughout eastern Ontario and western Quebec, into lovely towns with lovely names like Cobden and Papineauville and Kazabazua. Later it became big chunks of Alberta where I would roll through Red Deer or down into Pincher Creek and Crowsnest Pass, or over to Banff and beyond. 

It was delivering groceries to big and small stores and hotels from Ottawa and Calgary bases, often using rollers and more often simply hand bombing, and it was a very physical and demanding job, not to mention driving in snowstorms and other downright rotten weather that took a big toll on my mind, my knees, and my first marriage. 

I don’t know how many times I’ve lost track of where I was on the highway because of blinding snow, or had to stop and wait out a white-out. A co-worker of mine even had his whole rig blown over by one of the extraordinary wind storms they get down by the Alberta-Montana border.

It was all very tiring and often way too stressful, and I decided I didn’t want to drive semi’s anymore.

But if I had to, if I was forced to, I’d want to deliver beer for Molsons with a big CH on the side of the trailer. If I’m going to be a truck driver, this is how I want it. It might even make me feel like I was part of the team.

Talk is swirling gently in the breeze that Carey Price and his agent have a figure of three million dollars stuck in their brains and don’t feel like signing for less.

I hope he gets it. But he’d better earn it if he does. Employers aren’t all that crazy about giving raises to employees who don’t deserve it.

So far, Price hasn’t deserved a raise. He’s made $850,000 in base salary in each of the past three years with bonuses bringing things to 2.2 million per. And for these millions, the young goaltender remains unproven, with a resume of 134 games played with the Habs, racking up a very ordinary 69 wins, 48 losses, and 18 overtime losses along with a very mediocre 2.73 goals against average.

But he wants a raise and will get a raise, even though he might have to hold a gun to the team’s head for this to happen.

All I’m saying is, if he earns three million a year, he’d better play like a three million a year goaltender.

That’s all the team and its fans are asking of him.

On August 31, 1931, a baby boy was born in Trois Rivieres, Quebec, and he was the classiest baby in the entire hospital.

In his brief stay there with his mom, this little baby was the leader of babies, helping them calm down after a crying session, gently reminding each of them that it was okay to let it all out from top and bottom, and he taught them to appreciate the love being sent from all around.

Everyone loved the little baby Jean. And everyone continued to love him when he became Jean Beliveau.

                                                                                  I saw Jean Beliveau play several times at both Maple Leaf Gardens and the Forum. He was, in general, the most noticeable player on the ice because of his size – 6’3″, 205 lb, which was bigger than most then, and of course his smooth skating and poetic puck handling. He was the one asking the referee the questions, the one up front on the power play, the one that fans in Toronto would watch nervously because they knew he was always smart and dangerous.

I think I almost gave him a heart attack once. I was at the Montreal Forum picking up a stick the team had given me after I had written asking if I could have a Guy Lafleur game-used stick and they said if I was willing to drive from Ottawa, then come on down, they’d have something for me.

In the end it wasn’t a Lafleur stick but instead a Bob Gainey unused stick signed by the 1984-85 team, which was still a pretty good deal considering they were giving it to me for free. The Montreal Canadiens have always been a good organization when it comes to the fans.

I left with the stick and found a door into another part of the Forum where I decided to wrap my new gift so I wouldn’t smudge the signatures, and as I was doing this, the door opened at the top of the stairs and it was Jean Beliveau.

When he saw me down below wrapping a long object, he stopped dead in his tracks with a real surprised look on his face, like I was wrapping a gun. But I quickly showed him what I was doing and he slowly came down the stairs and reached for his pen to sign my stick. But I had already wrapped it and for reasons unknown to man, I didn’t bother to unwrap it. So he put his pen back in his pocket and walked out into the street.

It was an unusual few minutes. And I feel bad that I startled him. And because of that, I want to wish an extra happy birthday to the man.

Happy Birthday Jean Beliveau! May you have many, many more.

Here’s where we stand. We’re still in the dog days with another five weeks before Carey Price starts standing on his head and the team begins to collect an amazing amount of points in the standings. I’m on a day off and plan on eating lemon pudding and watching American Justice.

So what do I do when it’s time to post another important post for your reading and viewing pleasure and American Justice is coming on? I come out with the heavy hitter. A no-brainer.

There’s just no need for words:

If you’re like me and enjoy a good, solid hockey dust up, then you’ll probably like this little tango between Jacques Martin’s Ottawa Senators and the Philadelphia Flyers from a few years ago.

Danno, who should be spending his free time finding world peace and a cure for the common cold, has been doodling instead and has come up with this little creation that suits me just fine.

So I’ve decided that when I own the team, I decree that this little crest will be sewn on the shoulders of the players’ jerseys and maybe their wives’ mini-skirts.

This edition of the scrapbook shows players’ kids, fights, action shots, and a veritable cornucopia of many things Habs.

My wife works at an old folks home and one day she noticed that an 80 year old fellow named Yvan had Habs coasters on his table in his room.  So she asked him if he was a Montreal Canadien fan and he said yes indeed, he’s been one all his life. The two of them chatted about the team that day, had great talks as the boys wove their way through the playoffs, and continue to do so now whenever they see each other.

Yvan says he can’t wait for the season to begin. 

This is a man who would have been a young boy when Morenz and Joliat were dazzling all concerned, the Montreal Maroons were alive and well, and young Maurice Richard was thinking about shaving.

From then to now, he’s never stopped loving his Habs.

And the other day, in a touching gesture, he tracked down my wife and gave her this lovely face cloth.