There’s a huge storm running rampant through British Columbia’s south coast right now, including Powell River where I am. Huge winds are knocking down trees and scattering branches and leaves on the roads. Rain is falling , the Island ferry has cancelled its sailings, the cat’s scared and won’t eat, and outside noises kept me awake most of the night. I’m hoping my roof doesn’t blow off.
This storm started sometime around 7 pm pacific, 10 eastern last night, almost to the minute when a hockey game in New York ended. I know what it means, and so do you. The Montreal hockey gods are rightly pissed off.
For whatever reason, Howie, Aurele, Doug, Toe, the Rocket and all the others chose the south coast to voice their displeasure. They’re furious at what they saw on the weekend in games against Ottawa and the Rangers. But please Howie, go easy on my roof.
“Those players aren’t worthy of wearing the sweater,” says Howie as he smokes his pipe and keeps one eye on his great-grandkids down below. “Don’t they understand what it means to have the CH on the front for all to see? I bled those colours. Hell, I died from a broken heart when I couldn’t wear it anymore.”
“Let me *&%#%^ have a couple of $#%&*$ minutes with them,” Toe added. “They’ll wish they were back sucking on their mother’s %$#@ teats when I get through with them.”
“We used to go in to New York and show no mercy,” added the Rocket. “We had a two-goal lead before Storey would even drop the puck, because we had confidence, and we wore the sweater. It’s the sweater, tabernac. We played for the sweater. And me and Ezinicki, we’d go at it for………” “Never mind back then, Rock,” interrupted Newsy, who just came in. “We gotta do something about now. This is bullshit. These kids are supposed to be Montreal Canadiens.”
Over in the corner, Boom Boom stopped singing for a few minutes and joined in. “I knew modern-day players,” he said, “and most of them were spoiled rich kids who wanted it all handed to them on a silver platter. They’d get their agents to do their thinking for them, and tabernac, they’d just as soon play in Phoenix or Atlanta as in Montreal because it’s only about money and that’s all. Money. Merde, I didn’t mind working in the summer slinging crates onto trucks. Didn’t mind. These kids? Spoiled little pricks. Oops, sorry God.”
“So what are we gonna do, boys?” asked the Rocket. “Are we gonna sit up here and let this team rot like they have for all these years now. “Anybody?”
“I know,” piped up Jacques, who had been listening intently as he knitted socks. “Let’s start with a big storm, far away from Montreal. How bout the west coast? Then we can pick and choose as the days go by. We’ll fire asses all over place, make a big trade. get the team all riled up. But first we”l get the winds blowing on the south coast. Show we’re pissed off.”
“You’re good at that, Plante,” said Toe. “You riled me up all the time. But I like your thinking. We’ll start with the west coast %^%$@ storm, then we’ll fire asses and make some big ^&%$# trades happen. You’re smart, Jacques. Remind me again why I didn’t like you back then?”