Habs Dads

I got to take my youngest son to his first Canadiens hockey game on Monday, thanks to some tickets graciously donated by my too-generous friend Warren. I usually don't get to many games owing to the fact that the tickets are rather pricey and in general my disposable income amounts to the spare change found under the front seat of my car. 

It's not the first hockey game he's seen. We've been to a couple of Montreal Juniors games. While the hockey is exciting, there isn't much else to entertain a five year-old. These days, a bunch of NHL prospects zipping up and down the ice is not entertainment enough for the Lego Star Wars generation.
 
For me, taking my boy to a Habs game was a quintessential father-son moment. One that I had been looking forward to for some time. I already had the same experience with my older son, which I remember with great fondness. Now that he is a teenager in college, dad's status has been relegated to something equal to, or less than, a table lamp.

My hope was that my little man would be as enthralled with the experience of live hockey as I was in my childhood, perched in a cold wooden seat at the old Forum. HD television is good for catching details that are often lost for those in the stands, but there is no substitute for the electricity and excitement of a live game. The sound of the crowd, roaring to life after a home-team goal or the collective groans at a missed opportunity. The fist-pumping cheers of approval after a solid body check and the crisp clack of a puck on a stick blade. Then there are the smells: popcorn, hot dogs, beer and a mixture of colognes and perfumes, thankfully in place of stale cigarette smoke.

The sights are far more spectacular than in the old Forum days, but the atmosphere is still very much the same. Some sections of the crowd seem to be in non-stop party mode, while others appear intensely focused upon the on-ice action. A young couple holds hands, stealing the occasional passionate kiss. A group of young men jump out of their seats with every play, exchanging high-fives and chest bumps, fuelled by multiple gulps from plastic beer cups. Older gentlemen, veterans of Habs hockey fandom, wisely call each play before it happens and shake their heads at rookie mistakes. Pretty young women vie for a spot on camera, while their young male counterparts vie for the attention of the pretty young women. 

And then there are the fathers. Passing on a gift that came from their fathers. Hoping to rekindle in their child a small piece of the magic that dazzled them in their childhood. Faithfully forging a link to generations past through experience and memory.

The mood had been set as we arrived at our seats at the Bell Centre. Maxim Lapierre was presented the Jean Béliveau award for his charitable and community work. The trophy was presented by its legendary namesake, and almost instantly I could sense something special was in the air.

My only trepidation in bringing my son to this preseason tilt was the current woes of young goaltender Carey Price. I wasn’t so much concerned for him, although I sympathize with the intolerable situation in which he has landed; it had more to do with the crowd. In particular, what if young Price had yet another game where the puck looked more like a bullet than a beach ball? Would the crowd get on him again, booing and chanting "Halak, Halak?" Would it get ugly?

The answer came early when after a couple of easy saves the crowd chanted “Carey, Carey.” Then came a power play goal. One that he could have, or perhaps, should have stopped. I expected the worst. There were a few initial boos, but they were soon replaced by another chorus of “Carey, Carey.”

It was the right crowd. A true Habs crowd. I’ve been around long enough to know the difference.

The game ended with a Canadiens win, 6 to 2 over the Florida Panthers. Carey Price would pick up his first pre-season victory, helped along by a determined defensive team effort, and a supportive crowd.

Time will tell if my young son will remember that night, or its significance. As we drove home under the darkness and gentle rain of a late September evening, he drifted quietly off to sleep. Dreaming dreams, I hope, of the sights, smells and sounds of a tradition that is timeless. Of a small hand slipped into his father's, just as it was so many years ago, beneath the lights and the history of a Montreal Canadiens hockey game.