Dear Person In Charge Of Heaven
You had your priest make all the boys in grade seven become altar boys, even though several of us would rather have stuck needles in our eyes. You made us take turns getting up at six in the morning during the summer holidays so we could ride our bikes to the church, put those things on, and forget what to do. I always rang the bell at the wrong time. Sometimes I stood when I should be sitting, or knelt when I should be standing. Sometimes I came close to tripping in front of all the churchgoers because my black robe was too long. And I once set my white robe on fire lighting candles and the Monsignor had to run out and swat me out. It’s no wonder the Monsignor and the other priests took about eight extra drinks of wine when I was altar boying.
So you see, I paid my dues. Now you can do a little for me.
You can make the Montreal Canadiens a fire-wagon, powerhouse machine that destroys the Boston Bruins and Toronto Maple Leafs and Ottawa Senators and the rest of those evil groups that probably don’t have one ex-altar boy among them.
Then you can finish it off with the Canadiens winning the Stanley Cup.
Hey, you owe me.
(That’s me, three rows up, fourth from the right. The one who’s probably thinking about several of the girls in my grade seven class who were developing lovely breasts.)