It is 10:00 AM, I am outside, the temperature is 16 and rising fast. A glorious day to spend outside.  I think I have cleaned up about 1/3 of our property.  My goal is to get another 1/3 done today, but, who knows.  I am writing now because I have a story to tell and I rather hope it takes all day to flesh it out as it deserves.  

Quick health update: I feel excellent, better than I have in two years at least.  Don't take that to mean I have more breath.  I don't. I do however feel much stronger than I have in a long time.  That, combined with the skills I learned at rehab and a mind free of clutter makes life most excellent at the moment.  Everything is working.  Time to push hard.

It is playoff time in these hockey mad parts.  Last night I held my breath, screamed in agony followed by cries of joy and generally lost my mind for a few hours while Nos Glorieux, Le Club de Hockey Canadiens, my Habs battled the evil, satanic Boston Bruins.  We won and lead the series 2 games to 1, but that is not the point of this story.  How I came to be a die hard Habs fan for life, is.

Some of my earliest memories are of Saturday night hockey games. I was maybe three or four, the year would be 1958 or 1959. Hockey Night in Canada came on TV at 8:00 PM, midway through the first period.  Of course at that age I was not watching the game, I was either tucked into my bed at home, or as often would be the case, lying on a pile of coats, along with my sister, at Nana's or Auntie May's house, supposedly sleeping.  Now, if we were at home only some drapes separated our bedroom from the living room where the tv was.  Invariably there would be a significant number of people in that living room, whooping it up and drinking beer and rum and cokes.  Our parents at the time were the ripe old age of 21 or 22, the grandparents double that.  It was a large and young extended family that lived close to each other.  Saturday nights were for getting together and having a good time.  It was hard to miss anything.  

My dad got me playing, or rather, trying to play hockey at a normal, young age.  A canadian boy in the early 60's played hockey, outside, on a team.  You cleaned the ice before the game, and between periods, yourself.  The changing room was an old CPR caboose with a wood stove.  It don't get more authentic than that.  To my dad's everlasting disappointment, and maybe just a tinge of shame, I was entirely hopeless at hockey.  I could not skate off my ankles.  No supports available at the time helped.  I skated on my ankles seriously bad.  I tried immensely hard to learn how to skate.  I walked the four blocks up to the skating rink at the park on Vimont and la Fontaine to skate by myself hundreds of times in attempts to get better.  I could not skate backwards nor stop properly.  I played anyway for a few years, my dad tying my skates, cheering me on, hoping I think against hope that I would find the spark that would turn me into a hockey player.  Even at that age of 6 or 7 kids were being identified as being serious players with potential.  I was nowhere near that quality.  I think in the maybe 3 or 4 years I played I distinguished myself by getting 1 penalty.  No goals.  No assists.  I was so desperate the last year to do something, anything, that one game the kid who was the goalie did not make the game.  I guess in those days teams of  7 year olds did not have back up net minders.  I volunteered.  Big mistake.  I don't think I stopped a single shot, and 7 year olds with wooden sticks hardly did anything with a puck that resembled shooting.  Everything happened in slow motion and I was paralysed.  Not good.  My poor dad.  He knew it was over.

A few years later as a 10 year old I came out of the athletic wastelands a wiser lad.  Hockey had a million negatives for me, but there were lessons learned as well.  I loved to move, run and compete, even when I had no success.  I found soccer and football, curling and other games that I excelled in at various times.  I think my dad was sort of "meh" about them though.  It was not hockey.  

By time I was 6 or 7 I was allowed to watch the game through the second period on Saturday night.  The Canadiens always won the Stanley Cup, year after year it seemed, until I was 25.  

I went to my first game at the Montreal Forum for my 10th birthday, a present from my dad.  The Detroit Red Wings were playing the Habs in a late February or early March game.  Gordie Howe was my dad's favorite non Habs player.  Dad had been talking about how good he was, how he did things in the corners and how mean he could be.  It was a night I am sure my dad always remembered.  I think Howe had what was known as a Howe hat trick, a goal an assist and a fight.  It was to be the first of many, many games at the Forum with my dad.

Later, during my early teenage years my dad took a part time job at the Forum slinging hot dogs and beer at Habs games.  I don't think dad really needed the money but it helped.  He enjoyed playing the angles and he loved being able to see all the hockey he wanted.  After a while, when he knew the folks and the ropes, the doors to the Forum opened for me.  I more or less had a standing room season ticket.  I lived the dream of a Montreal kid by going to the Forum when I wanted to.  So many great memories.  "The Stanley Cup parade will take the usual route" says Mayor for life Drapeau each and every spring.  

My dad's connection to the Forum and les Canadiens stayed strong the rest of his life.  Once, I would have been 30 ish, I needed something special for a golf tournament fund raiser that Nicole and I put on for Children's Wish Foundation.  I asked my dad if he could score a couple of season tickets to the Habs, an impossible request here in Montreal.  Dad came up with them and the auction raised over 10K.  Dad made a lot of good friends at the Forum.  He was part of a great and glorious tradition.  How could I not be Bleu, Blanc, Rouge for life?

Go Habs, Go.  Dad is watching the Drive For Twenty Five.