(dice)

These days it’s hard to remember half the players on the home team, let alone another 29. Leave that to the ice-game enthusiasts who do convoluted fantasy drafts.
In my day the entire season could be played out in one wonderful wintery Sunday afternoon, just in time for the CBC radio broadcast. Others claimed it boring, but Maurice and Jacques figured it was the most thrilling time of their puck-scarred lives. One pencil, some paper, and one die.
I time travelled back to even simpler times – fifty games, ten against each team, simple double round-robin home and away. Repeat five times. 150 games, 300 dice rolls. Then March playoffs. I cheated by using the commissioner’s power to call a false roll. This ensured victory of Les Habitant. Still Jacques never managed a shutout in my fantasy league.
Only later did I infer why I was a rarity, a Montreal fan on the prairies, not from St. Paul, St. Boniface, Falher, or any other former Quebecois community. Father detested racial hate. He chose Montreal firstly to antagonize the neighbourhood bigots, and secondly because they were incredible, hockey’s original dynasty. I enjoyed his wink towards me when we went over to Hector’s house and Dad would turn the rile-him-up key by some simple comment. “Wasn’t that some goal Maurice scored the other night?” Then he’d relax and listen for a loud ten minutes or more, enjoying every malicious minute of it, whilst watching me learn the lesson. Subtle were the ways.
Usually, but not always, the commissioner would see to it that the final would come down to a close one with the hated Leafs. It was so quietly intense – as if I was walking a tightrope high above The Forum ice. As if by some pre-ordained time treaty, Mom would call, “Aren’t you bored with that yet?” Then I’d hear Danny say it, “The Montreal Canadiens have won the Stanley Cup!”