I’ve just heard that one of my old hockey coaches from when I was a kid, Blair Ashmore, just got married!

Mr. Ashmore is 90-years old.

Congratulations to him and his new bride!

I’ve had it up to here with the way kids get special treatment. The way they get to latch on to boobs anytime they want. The way they get to go out on Halloween and get free stuff. They don’t have to work, they sleep whenever they want, and they get an allowance.

I’ve even seen some of the shorter ones strolling casually around the beach with no pants on.

It’s all about them. We’re too nice to them. I think they should spend a few years in the army before they reach puberty.

Think for a moment how much you’d save on your grocery bill, all the while knowing your child is safe and sound at Bordon or Petawawa and learning how to make a bed and keep the shoes shined. And finally getting weaned off nose-picking.

I’m afraid to say anything regarding the Leafs’ epic collapse against the Bruins in game seven. I’m a firm believer in karma, and I feel if I mention how the Leafs folded like a cheap suit, somehow the hockey gods will take note and give me royal payback sometime next season.

So nuff said.

The Leafs lost. Yes they did. It was wild. Unfortunately, the Bruins won. It was a classic no-win situation.

How was that, hockey gods? You ain’t got nothin on me. I didn’t say a thing. I’m innocent.

At least it’s number one in Canada.

The Bell Centre ranks fifth in the league, which you can see here – 2013 NHL Arena Rankings

This site looks rates these rinks based on food and beverage, atmosphere, the neighborhood, fans, access to the rink, return on investment, and a few extras thrown in.

Toronto and Boston are way down, at 26th and 27th. Toronto is rated at 24th, while Ottawa sits at 25th.

Florida’s last.

In reading Jack Todd’s column in the Montreal Gazette this morning, I see that Carey Price isn’t happy with being a famous hockey player in Montreal, as he mentioned to the media scrum as players cleaned out their lockers.

“That’s one thing I miss,” he said, “just being anonymous. It’s tough to do that here.

“It’s impossible. I don’t even go to the grocery store anymore. I hardly do anything anymore. I’m like a hobbit in a hole.”

I find myself not feeling his pain a great deal. This is the job, one that pays $5.5 this year, then a couple of raises, then $7 million a year for the final three. It goes with the territory when you’re a star in a hockey hotbed.

But then you say, it’s not about the money, it’s about quality of life, and no one should have to be like a hobbit in a hole.

I’ll bet it’s a nice hole, though. And it absolutely must be a headache to live without privacy. But every job has it’s share of problems. I definitely know mine does. Probably yours too. Price’s job just happens to have fans who either adore him or tell him he sucks.

Maybe he should wear a wig and glasses when he goes out, like Bob Dylan does sometimes.

I can understand how it can’t be all that great to not live a somewhat normal life, to not be able to go to the grocery store without someone wanting a picture, but how did the Rocket manage? How does Jean Beliveau still do it? How does anyone do it? Probably players don’t care about fans the way they used to. It’s strictly a business now. It’s not about love or anything as farfetched and silly as that.

Rocket was shy, but he still walked down the street with his head held high, kindly acknowledging the people who wanted to say hi and well done, and who wanted to ask the great man what happened the night before at the Forum.

I remember reading once where Richard was walking down the street long after he’d retired, and a person passing him simply nodded, said hi, and kept walking. Rocket’s reaction? He wondered why. He asked himself if people didn’t care anymore. He found it strange.

I was at an oldtimers game in Calgary when Rocket was refereeing, and between periods I went down by the dressing room, saw Jimmy Mann, and asked him if it was possible to meet Mr. Richard. Mann yelled in to the Rocket that someone wanted to meet him, Rocket came out with a smile on his face, we talked for five minutes or so, and he was everything I’d hope he would be. Just a kind and friendly man who understood what it all meant. And he didn’t live in a hole.

There are some who accept their celebrity lot in life and all that goes with it. Apparently Price doesn’t. Or maybe it’s not bad when he’s playing well. Maybe that’s the difference.

How do movie stars and rock and rollers do it?

I’ll bet when they’re old and fat and ugly, many would give their rusted nose ring and quick tan spray if more would remember them and tell them how much they loved their music or their movies, and could they please sign their piece of paper.

But of course people are different. Richard did it, Beliveau, movie stars, and musicians do it, but Price is holed up in solitary confinement. Maybe he’s in the wrong business. He could always forfeit his millions, work for 30 grand a year at the dry cleaners, and be able to go to the grocery store whenever he wants. Or maybe he could be like others, who only want to collect their millions without having silly fans adore them, and choose Phoenix or Florida when they get the choice.

It’s the easy way out. Like lip-synching a hit record.

It doesn’t seem to be a problem for Price to hit the rodeos throughout the summer and mingle with the good ole guys and gals. Guys and gals who ask to have their pictures taken with him, and shove scraps of paper in his face to sign. It’s okay then, but for those 150 days a year when he’s actually in the city of Montreal surrounded by adoring fans and not on the road or busting broncos, it’s not for him. He hates that.

And if he wouldn’t have made it to the NHL in the first place, he would’ve hated that too.

Don’t worry, Carey, a pro hockey career doesn’t last a long time. Before you know it you’ll have your privacy. And who knows, maybe you’ll miss the days when life was so crazy.

Every ten years or so, my friend Gary in Ottawa sends me a box of gifts. Just out of the blue, and always quite fascinating.

One came the other day, and included:

A plastic alarm clock that looks like sticks of dynamite and which needs a battery.

A cassette that’s seen better days and might have Genesis on it.

A paragraph from a newspaper about how an underwater mountain in BC was destroyed in one of the largest non-nuclear controlled explosions.

A newspaper story from Jan. 16, 2012, after the Habs had just picked up Rene Bourque, and their recent success against the New York Rangers.

A clipping about the Habs drafting Dalton Thrower.

Two Montreal Canadiens 2011-12 pocket schedules.

A postcard of the old Ottawa tavern, the Elmdale House, along with a flyer listing the band lineup for July.

A 2012-13 Gatineau Olympiques pocket schedule.

Two beer receipts from a grocery store in Alymer, Que.

Four golf tees from Mountain Ridge golf course.

A hardcover book called Death of a Dissent, about the KGB, and which is quite interesting.

A pocket reading light.

A clipping about Wayne Gretzky’s daughter Paulina, who was seen leaving a restaurant in West Hollywood dressed in a skimpy outfit.

A brochure about exotic spices.

A 2010 Journal de Montreal.

A tiny plastic Devils goalie stick from cereal.

A full page newspaper story about Paulina Gretzky sunbathing in a tropical location.

A 1997 Memorial Cup pocket schedule.

A Scotiabank hockey magazine.

An All-Star Weekend Ottawa Sun insert.

A 2005-06 Ottawa Senators Sun insert.

Beer prices advertisement from a grocery store.

Sidney Crosby Dempster’s Bakery card.

A Senators ad.

a Shania Twain photo of her  in her Habs outfit.

A Star Trek expired video card.

A few years back I tried to get in touch with someone from the Buzinski family. I tried Saskatoon and Swift Current. I tried Calgary, where Steve Buzinski’s son Peter was supposed to live. But I had no luck anywhere. It’s too bad. I would’ve liked to have learned more about the man.

Stevbe Buzinski was a goalie for the New York Rangers on the night of November 8, 1942, when Maurice ‘Rocket’ Richard scored his first-ever goal in the NHL.

Of course, being scored on by the Rocket was nothing to be ashamed of. Richard scored on dozens of the poor, padded chaps. This Ranger rookie just happened to be the first, that’s all.

Rocket was 21 years old and wore number 15 at the time for the Habs. He had yet to change to number nine, and he was still a few broken bones away from becoming the icon he would become.

Buzinski had been called up from the minors to replace the Rangers’ goalies Chuck Raynor and Sugar Jim Henry, who were both enlisted to fight in the war overseas. Buzinski’s career was only nine games, letting in 55 goals, and he had a not-too-good average of more than six goals a game.

The Rangers soon released Buzinski, and the youngster returned to Swift Current and worked for the federal government until his retirement.

I would have liked to have known what Buzinski thought about his Rocket connection. Was he proud of the fact? How was the goal scored? Did the Rocket scoop the puck up for a souvenir? And why did Buzinski not play in the minors after being released by the Rangers?

But I couldn’t find any of his family, so I have no idea.

I’m in a good mood. A great mood. I feel like whistling. The sun is shining brightly, birds are singing, I had a good sleep, and my porridge tasted terrific. I hope you have a wonderful day too. You deserve it.

I also hope the Ottawa Senators crash and burn and suck and get blown out and are ridiculed and humiliated and their coach gets his mustache stuck in a combine harvester.

I hope anthem singer Lyndon Slewidge pokes himself in the eye when he does that finger thing at the end of the song.

I hope Senators fans whine and fret and cry and yell at the referees, and in general, feel hopelessly lousy and depressed as their team smells like the sanitation truck that empties out the sewage system on the ferry boat.

I hope Ottawa bars sit deathly quiet as hockey fans quietly nurse their Pink Ladies, long after the televisions have been shut off.

Yes, it’s a fine day. I feel like whistling.

Excellent Habs fan since the 1950s, a big Jean Beliveau fan, and a name you might recognize as he comments here often, Mike Williamson, is on strike in Toronto.

Mike’s a member of the International Union of Elevator Constructors (IUEC), and he says it sure isn’t the way he wanted his final of 25 years in the great trade to end.

I was on the picket line once when B.C. Ferry workers went on strike, and people drove by and swore at us. They’d be swearing at Mike too, I guess, but they can’t get down from the top floors to do it.

The Habs are gone, and for now………

No more P.K. Subban wheeling around and rushing like a man possessed, or blasting a missile from the point, or sailing across the ice, fired up, in the moment, to level an oncoming enemy.

No more Brendan Gallagher crashing the net, standing firm as bigger opponents try to figure out how to take his head off without getting penalized, with the young fellow holding his ground as he’s mugged and coming back for more. No more of the little bugger pushing hard against the gigantic Zdeno Chara and other behemoths, and when seeing this, how could it not touch our hearts.

No more Brandon Prust sticking up for his teammates, and sometimes finding himself on the scoresheet after giving the proverbial and impossible 110%. No more choirboy Lars Eller getting better each game, or witnessing 19-year old Alex Galchenyuk slowly make his way to a brilliant future.

No more of the players we cheer for on some nights when they’re on fire, and want to ship to Vladivostok when they’re struggling.

No more beautiful blue, white, and red uniform with the big CH on the front. The uniform the Rocket wore. How it must feel to put this sweater on. Fans of other teams don’t understand, and I guess we don’t expect them to.

No more Pierre Houde shouting “et le but,” or, from any of the English voices, “he shoots, he scores,” as one or another Montreal Canadien lights the lamp, and we celebrate and crave more.

No more anticipation of a big game, especially at the Bell, with a booming rendition of the national anthem beforehand, with the crowd ready and expectations high, with little kids carrying the flag or pretending to light up the ice. I applied for this flag job a few years ago, only to be told I’m about 50 years too old.

No more games, for a few months, for us who cheer for our Montreal Canadiens. We who feel the magic. Magic in the crest. Magic in a big night.

It’s over for now, until they come together once again, when, as we always have, we’ll hope and dream and yell at the referee.

Until then, until we see the blue, blanc, and rouge take to the ice, the games might as well be played in Oregon.

Boring, Oregon.