1994: the year that the New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup, finally lifting their fifty-four year old curse. It was a curse that many Ranger fans thought would never end. Most of the fans shrugged it off. There was nothing they could do. It was out of their control. The diehards, though - the true Ranger fans - didn't take it quite so well. They would do anything for their team. They waited patiently for a long, long time until finally receiving their reward: the Stanley Cup. As a fan wrote on a banner at Madison Square Garden after Game Seven's victory, "Now I can die in peace". With a curse lasting that long, is it surprising that fans believed in it and became superstitious? After all, hockey players are superstitious. They have their game day routines that they stick to without deviation. Hockey fans are the same way. Or, I should say, the diehard fans are - so committed to their team that they follow daily rituals based on superstition. The hockey fanatics: this is their story.

This book attempts to cover the essence of being a true, hockey fan. Following daily rituals before a hockey game is part of the job description. That is not all, though. Every hockey fan has an opinion on the officiating, coaching, playing, and coverage of the game. Some become sports writers or commentators. Most remain fanatics for their particular team, trashing or criticizing opposing views. I must warn you: this book will not be another objective, watered-down look at hockey. Through the examination of hockey fan superstitions, the following will be a look at hockey from a fan's point of view - a biased point of view. A view that I believe you will relate with. You may disagree with some of what is said in this book but this perspective will bring a fresher look to our nation's favourite sport. Based somewhat historically and somewhat creatively, this book will show that fans are part of the game, too - something NHL players and owners don't seem to fully realize or understand.

The 1992-93 playoffs worried Paul and me tremendously. Our favourite team, the Montreal Canadiens, had skidded into the playoffs, losing six of their last ten games. They would have to face the Quebec Nordiques in the opening round of the playoffs at Le Colisee. We were very nervous about confronting the Nordiques, a team that had won the regular season series four games to three. Of course, the sports media had named the Nordiques as the favourites and the Canadiens as the underdogs in the latest chapter of the Battle of Quebec. Undeniably, our team was under a lot of pressure. Sure, they were expected to lose the series, but it wouldn't be tolerated - not in Montreal: changes would definitely occur in the off-season if they were ousted by Quebec. Paul and I hoped that this wouldn't be another wasted year. If only we could help - but how? What could we do?

I had arrived at Paul's house an hour early to prepare for the 'important' first game. Paul was newly married and this was his first playoffs in his new house. "I feel good about the playoffs this year, Jack. It's the one hundredth Stanley Cup year and my first year here in this house. See what I'm saying? It's fated."

"I hope you're right. Patrick has got to play well. He has to show everyone who is the best goalie in the league."

"He will, he will."

I had come to Paul's house in proper attire: an official Montreal Canadiens jersey with no t-shirt underneath. I wanted the Canadiens' crest to rub against my chest. It gave me a feeling of closeness to the team. Good luck, too. Paul had done the same except he was wearing a pair of Canadiens track pants to go with it. The television in his living room was angled perfectly for me, laying comfortably on his sofa. He was sitting next to me in his Lazy-boy chair, fidgeting constantly from position to position, trying to find the perfect spot.

It was time: 7:30 pm - Game One - Montreal at Quebec. CBC commentators Dick Irvin and Chris Cuthbert began the game with the usual hype that surrounds the NHL playoffs. The Nordiques' high-flying offense versus Montreal's mix of grinders and scorers. Youth versus experience. Ron Hextall versus Patrick Roy. The Battle of Quebec! Who will win...

By the end of the second period, Montreal was up 2-0 on goals by Gilbert Dionne and Brian Bellows. A two-goal lead was not enough to ease the tension in the room. Even with the lead, Paul was upset, to put it mildly. "It should be 5-0! Hextall has a horseshoe up his ---!" We knew how explosive the Nordiques could be. The score stayed that way for most of the third period until disaster struck: two goals forty seconds apart. The second, by Joe Sakic, came with forty-eight seconds left in regulation time. The game was tied and Paul was having a fit, muting the television in disgust. Why give the Quebec fans the satisfaction of listening to their cheers?

And so, sudden-death overtime - the most thrilling facet of hockey. 'Next goal wins' gives the sport such a mystique that, aside from baseball, few other sports can rival. The importance of winning the game and the pressure of losing it in one swift, scoring play creates an urgency that is hard to deny. For Paul and me though, overtime was torture. Each one of Quebec's rushes stopped our hearts as each Montreal rush pushed us to the edge of our seats, hoping for the agony to end. Unfortunately, the agony ended at 16:49 of the first overtime off the stick of Scott Young, who scored on a wraparound that beat Patrick Roy. "Bullshit!" and other pleasantries followed as the agony of overtime turned to anger. The Nordiques had stolen Game One from under Montreal's nose.

Montreal didn't fare any better in Game Two. The outcome was never in doubt as the score was 3-0 for the Nordiques by the end of the first period. With the devastating overtime loss still stewing in our minds, the first period didn't help to lift our spirits. It didn't take long for Paul to mute the television this time around. The loud cheers and the commentating of Irvin and Cuthbert were too much for his low tolerance level. "Why do we have to put up with these guys year after year? They're annoying!"

"Irvin's been a Hab commentator forever, Paul..."

"Dick's annoying! He's hated the Habs for years, ever since the last dynasty ended in '79."

"Some friends at work, they're Leaf fans, they say the opposite: they complain that Dick loves the Habs and I answer back, 'Does Bob Cole love the Leafs'?"

"He loves them alright, especially God, I mean, Doug Gilmour."

"It's easy to confuse the two."

"Yeah, but you can't say that Dick loves the Habs. He always shoots them down and jumps on every good thing that the opposing team does. Look at this series. He's in love with the explosive offense of the Nordiques! You've heard him."

"Maybe it's because he's such a fan of the team that he's so hard on them. We criticize the Habs when they're not playing well."

"Not all the time like he does."

"Maybe he's just trying to be impartial for the national audience. He tries too hard, but..."

"...He hates the Habs, Jack, period." Paul had made up his mind. At any rate, now was not the time to have a discussion about Dick Irvin. The game was still on. A game that the Nordiques ended up winning, 4-1. We were crushed.

"I can't believe that they're going to lose the series." I got up from the sofa, shook my head, and dragged my feet to the door. Paul stood by the door, silent. He had ranted and raved for the two of us during Game One and most of Game Two. Now it was my turn to return the favour. "I can't believe this crap. We wait all year - for what? For this! What a waste."

"Yeah...see ya Thursday."

"Actually, umm, I can't come. A couple of friends invited me out to Hurley's to watch the game."

"Alright then, talk to you later."

"See ya."

"Whatever." Paul seemed like an echo of a man. It was as if someone had sucked the life right out of him.

I had made plans to go to Hurley's with Alex and Mark before the series began. Maybe this change of venue would bring some good luck to our team. Alex and Mark are both Canadiens fans (I wouldn't have gone to watch a Habs game with any other fans). We were all optimistic before the game. It's getting redundant, but this was an 'important' game. A Montreal victory would bring them back into contention but a loss would almost assure elimination. From where we were seated, we could not hear the play by play of the game or any of the insightful commentary. We didn't mind...

When the game started, our chatting ended. I had a knot in my stomach, Alex was rocking his chair, and Mark was chewing a piece of gum voraciously. Our eyes were glued to the screen. Once again, our frustration mounted early: Mats Sundin scored 1:17 into the game to give Quebec the lead. The first period was even in scoring opportunities as both goalies kept the game close. Quebec had the lead, 1-0, at the end of the first.

"Why do we put ourselves through this shit, year after year?" Alex said.

"Because we have no lives?" I offered to him.

"No, that's not it," Mark said quickly.

"In our empty, unproductive lives, watching hockey is our only means of achieving a sense of accomplishment." Bitterness has always inspired me creatively, even if tending to be a tad melodramatic.

Alex giggled. "Better, better, but not quite..."

"Face it, guys, we love this game. We love our team. We love the ups and downs, the trials and tribulations, the successes and the failures..."

"We get the idea, Mark." Alex interrupted Mark's sarcastic monologue so that he could throw in his own, "Real life. Real drama..."

"Thaaaaat's Hooooockey!" Every patron in the vicinity turned their head toward us. We stood out: standing around our table; glasses toasted together; screaming proudly in unison.

The second period started and we were back to serious business. Early in the second period, Kirk Muller saved our hearts a lot of strain by scoring a power-play goal. The goalies were the story in this game. Patrick Roy was his usual incredible self. Ron Hextall, on this night, was even more amazing. He was the reason his team was heading into overtime with the chance of going up 3-0 in the series. Montreal pelted him with 50 shots before scoring 10:30 into overtime, much to our delight. Actually, delight is an understatement: we were ecstatic. We jumped to our feet as Vincent Damphousse's backhander rebounded off Hextall and pushed back his way by his defenceman's skate into the net. Alex had just returned from the bathroom to see the goal and Hextall's antics. Hextall, being Hextall, complained profusely about the goal being kicked in. The goal stood and Montreal was back in the series, trailing 2-1.

After the game, I called Paul from the restaurant. "Woooooohooooooo!" He was expecting my call. I joined him in cheering.

"What a game!"

"Yes! Yes! They're back in it, bud!"

"Did you see Hextall take a suck-attack?"

"No, I didn't watch overtime at all."

"What?" I thought I was hearing things. Not watch overtime - the most exciting part of the game?

"I said, I didn't watch the overtime. When the overtime period began, I went to the spare bedroom and played Tetris."

"You didn't watch any of the overtime?"

"No, I turned the volume loud enough so I could hear it, but that's all. Mer watched the game for me."

"Man, I could never do that."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it? Listen, you have to come over Saturday night. I've got a plan - some new strategies lined up."

"I'll be there."

"See ya then. Come early."

"Okay, I'll see ya."

I arrived at Paul's pumped up. Momentum was ours so we were eagerly awaiting Game Four. Mats Sundin had said earlier in the series that they would win because they were more talented than Montreal. That had Paul and me fuming. However, deep down, we were happy that he opened his big mouth. Hopefully, this would help curse Quebec and ruin their chances of winning the series.

I decided to wear non-Montreal paraphernalia for this game. Jeans and a polo shirt - nothing fancy. Paul wore his Canadiens track pants again with a Montreal T-shirt, one of many that he owns. I was curious as to what Paul had planned for tonight's game. "Okay Paul, tell me about these 'plans' of yours."

"Seating positions everyone!"

"Huh?" Paul was seated in his lazy-boy chair and Marisa sat across from him in the love-seat.

"This was where we were sitting during Thursday night's game. Now, you choose..."

"I guess I have no choice." The sofa beside Paul was the only seat left in the room. I sat down.

"But you do. How are you going to sit on the sofa? Or, will you lie on it instead?" A good question really. I smiled as I pondered my numerous choices. Which position would be the most comfortable? More importantly, which would help the team? I chose to lie on the sofa, on my side, with my head closest to the television.

Noticing that time had drawn perilously close to the opening face-off, I grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and turned to the hockey game on channel eight.

"What are you doing?" Paul grabbed the converter from me, as if I had perpetrated some foul crime. "What were you thinking turning it to the English channel?"

"I'm lost here...where was I supposed to turn it?"

"To the French channel, obviously! Do you want to hear Dick's irritating comments? He's bad luck for the team, Jack."

"Who are the french commentators?"

"Claude Quennville and Gilles Tremblay."

"And they give a fair assessment of the Habs and of the game?"

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"It worked the other night, Jack. For the team..."

"For the team."

As the telecast began, I asked Paul nervously, "Are you ready?" Would the Habs even up the series or be pushed closer to the brink of elimination?

"Nope." He got up once he saw Patrick Roy in front of his net, preparing himself mentally for the game at hand. Paul planted his feet far apart, bent his knees, placed his hands on his thighs and nodded to Patrick. He then ran through the kitchen to stand at the top of the stairwell. In deep concentration, he stared above the stairwell at his shrine of Patrick Roy, framed and unframed posters of his favourite player in action. Smiling, he winked at his holy shrine and rushed back to the living room as the puck dropped for the opening faceoff. "Now I'm ready."

After two periods, the game was tied 2-2. Was all this preparation going to go to waste? 1:07 into the third period, Benoit Brunet scored the eventual game winner. 3-2 Montreal. And so, out came 'the dance'. We had practised on the previous two Montreal goals but we gelled on this goal. To the medley of "Rock 'n' Roll" by Gary Glitter, played after every Montreal goal in the Forum, we danced. Raising our hands as if this were some tribal ritual, we pranced around the living room, giving ourselves three fully extended high-fives in celebration of the sacrificial game-winning goal. To complete the ritual, we chanted to the song in front of the television until the puck dropped at centre ice. No, we weren't drinking heavily at all. Marisa stayed seated, laughing at our actions. At the end of the game, Paul stood up to cheer the victory. Upon seeing Patrick Roy being mobbed by his teammates, Paul approached the television and headbutted Roy. A symbolic gesture that would be remembered overnight in the form of a splitting headache.

Suddenly, Game Five had become extremely crucial. Could the Nordiques stop the momentum the Canadiens had gained with two straight wins? Once again, I was at Paul's house. Paul refused to deviate from our superstitious routines. I couldn't argue with him. They were working!

At the end of the first period, it was 1-0 Montreal on a goal by Mike Keane. Then came the eventful second period, the period that gave our hearts seizures. Quebec tied the game 1:46 in the second. Andrei Kovalenko scored but that wasn't the frightening part. Patrick Roy was injured on the play and in came Andre Racicot, lovingly known as "Red-Light" to many. We were in shock. This couldn't be happening. Everything was going so well. We didn't say a word to each other, only shaking our heads in disbelief. I sat up on the sofa with my hands under my legs, hoping that Racicot wouldn't live up to his nickname. At 8:17 of the second, our fears were realized: Mats Sundin scored on a power-play to give Quebec the lead. During the six minutes leading up to the goal, we had flinched at every Quebec opportunity shot at Racicot's vicinity. The unfortunate concession was that no one had confidence in him. No matter what the Montreal players said publicly, you had the feeling that they had no confidence in him either. Patrick Roy he isn't. During the regular season, he won seventeen games, losing only five. However, most of the wins were against sub-par teams and most were high-scoring struggles. Luckily, the Canadiens didn't roll over and play dead after that goal. Vincent Damphousse scored, followed by Eric Desjardins at 17:14 to overtake Quebec 3-2. Our collective sighs of relief didn't last long, though. Twenty seconds later, Owen Nolan scored to tie the game.

During the second intermission, we looked for answers. We didn't know what to do. What had we done to deserve this bad luck? We followed all the game-day routines just like we did in the other games. Then why did we lose Patrick? How serious was the injury to Roy? The announcers didn't have a clue. Paul and I felt helpless. Racicot, in the eighteen minutes he had played so far, had already allowed two goals. All we could do was hope.

The third period started with our prayers answered: Patrick Roy in front of the net. Yes! All of a sudden, we were filled once again with optimism. I broke the silence. "Well, I'm breathing a lot easier now."

"You and me both."

I regretted my comment six minutes into the third: Mats Sundin scored his second goal of the game to give Quebec the lead 4-3. My stomach was churning with the feeling that I may have cursed my team. I turned my head away from the television, swearing to myself. That was when I saw it: HIS picture was face down! "PAUL!"

"What?"

"LOOK!" I pointed towards the wall unit by the television. On the top shelf, a thin postcard, face down in front of a couple of wine glasses, was barely noticeable from where we were seating.

"Shit, no wonder!" Paul realized what was wrong. His signed Patrick Roy postcard wasn't standing up! He ran to the wall unit and gently placed the postcard back up against the wine glasses. Contented with the placement, he went back to his usual seat.

It didn't take long for Montreal's fortunes to change. At 13:23 of the third period, Gilbert Dionne scored to tie the game. Fortunately for Montreal, considering Quebec outshot them 15-7 in the third. Patrick Roy shut the door and, once again, we were headed for overtime.

As the overtime began, Paul knew what he had to do. "See ya, guys." He grabbed the Tetris game from the coffee table and left the room. Quebec dominated the shot counter in overtime 5-2 but it only takes one shot to win the game. After a Quebec scoring opportunity, Vincent Damphousse carried the puck up ice and passed it to an open Kirk Muller. He took his shot immediately at the top of the right faceoff circle and scored through the legs of Hextall, who was late coming over to set up for Muller's shot. Victory! Marisa and I jumped out of our seats and cheered, as Paul ran into the room to join in the celebration.

Game Five's victory at the Colisee ended up being a huge win for Montreal and a devastating loss for the Nordiques. At the Forum, Game Six was never in doubt for the Canadiens as they won handily, 6-2, and the series four games to two. Paul Dipietro scored a hat trick for the Habs. The real highlights of the game though were from the Quebec side. First, Ron Hextall was pulled from the game which was cheered lustily by the two of us. We had always hated Ron Hextall, stemming back from his Philadelphia days (Has any Hab fan forgiven him for attacking Chris Chelios in '89?). Constantly during the game, we cursed him through sarcastic comments like "What a great glove hand!" to "What a great team leader he is. An inspiration, really." Not only did we heckle him during the game, but we even had a commercial specially dedicated for him. It was an ice beer commercial. The commercial shows a lone beer bottle standing in a shadow when suddenly a block of ice falls on it. We acted out the commercial with Hextall starring as the beer bottle. Paul screamed out, "Watch out, Ron, watch out!", while I responded for the outspoken Hextall, "Blah blah blah!" The other highlight of Game Six was Pierre Page, coach of the Nordiques. I don't think we will ever forget seeing Pierre Page, eyes bulging, blast his superstars, Valeri Kamensky and Mats Sundin, in the third period in front of the national cameras. A humiliating moment for Sundin, who had guaranteed that they would beat Montreal earlier in the series. The series was over.

Montreal's next opponent was the Buffalo Sabres, who had swept the Boston Bruins in the first round. They weren't facing a much different team than Quebec. Both Buffalo and Quebec had similar explosive offences (Pat Lafontaine, Alexander Mogilny, and Dale Hawerchuk) and veteran goaltending (Grant Fuhr). If anything, Buffalo had the more experienced defensive corps. Paul and I called this the four-three series since Montreal beat Buffalo four straight by scores of 4-3, three of them decided in overtime. SWEEP! Great, we thought, they needed the rest. So did we. We didn't change any of our routines from the previous series at all. In fact, we added to the mix. Everytime that the Harfang Des Neiges company icon, an owl flapping its wings, appeared on the screen, Paul would flap his arms along with it. Yes, it looked silly but, in retrospect, it was symbolic of the Habs' playoff flight towards Lord Stanley's Cup.

All corniness aside, at this point we were doing almost anything for the Habs. The fact that Montreal defeated Quebec four straight once we had our routines in place, spurred us to continue the rituals. We were starting to become extremely superstitious; some would say overly superstitious. We were loyal, die-hard fans, though. Our team needed us, we thought. If Paul thought flapping his wings would help the team, so be it. This playoff had become our battle, too.

Montreal's sweep of Buffalo convinced us, especially me, that what we were doing wasn't silly. For example, we were unable to get together for Game Four. Paul and Marisa were invited to a family dinner party, a party that mainly consisted of Maple Leaf fans. This was the ultimate torture for Paul. Out of the friendly confines of his home, Paul was concerned whether the Habs would win. He was so worried that, on the way to the party, he returned home upon realizing what he had forgotten: his pre-game ritual - to worship and bow before his Holy Shrine Of Roy! Of course, Paul told Marisa he had left his wallet at home! Equally superstitious, I decided to watch Game Four at Hurley's again with Alex and Marc. The game went into overtime which angered us since Buffalo tied the game with ten seconds left in the third. Even without Pat Lafontaine and Alexander Mogilny (due to injuries), they wouldn't roll over and die. Alex was extremely agitated by these turn of events, to the point that he wanted to leave the restaurant. Marc and I refused. So, Alex stayed and tried to watch the overtime. Six minutes into overtime, Alex couldn't take it anymore. He had heard enough of sportscaster Chris Cuthbert's screams of "Here comes the Sabres!" and went to the bathroom.

Nothing happened while he was away. However, a couple of minutes after he returned, Kirk Muller scored on a harmless-looking shot past a fooled Fuhr to finish the Sabres. Talking to Paul later that night, he told me that they had left the party early so that Marisa could watch the overtime and he could play Tetris. Like I said, this wasn't silly anymore. These were things done for the good of 'our' team.

It was gratifying to see Buffalo lose three straight overtime games, three more overtimes that Paul didn't watch. Paul and I could imagine how irked they were. We revelled in their frustration.

"You know what's the best thing about beating Buffalo like this, Jack?"

"What?"

"Muckler wasn't able to put in his goon line at the end of the game. Games were too close."

"Hey, you're right. Ha ha heh heh heh." He made a valid point. John Muckler was unable to put on his prolific scoring line of Brad May, Rob Ray, and Matthew Barnaby. A shame that hockey fans were denied seeing their physical presences in action.

Later, I talked to Alex about the series over the phone. We discussed the play of veteran goaltender Grant Fuhr.

"Do you remember what Harry Neale used to say about Fuhr when he was in Toronto?"

"You mean that 'he won't give up the next, big goal'?"

"That's the one, Jack."

"Did Fuhr ever have a lead in Toronto?"

"Maybe once. Anyway, he let in the next, big goal every time against MONTREAL!"

After some chuckling, I added, "I guess Harry will have to come up with something new to say for Mr. Fuhr."

"Probably not."

It was at this point that we began to realize that the Stanley Cup was in our grasp. Our next opponent was the New York Islanders, who had upset the Pittsburgh Penguins in seven games to advance. I vividly remember watching Game Seven at Ken's house, a Devils fan and a fellow Penguin-hater. When David Volek scored in overtime, Ken cheered and I stood motionless. While Ken jumped and celebrated around me, I felt like I had seen a blinding light at the end of a lengthy tunnel that seemed to have become much shorter. Playing against Pittsburgh, the defending Stanley Cup Champions, would have been tough. Montreal would have been the underdogs against Pittsburgh. All of a sudden, they were the favourites with home-ice advantage over the upstart Islanders. It seemed easier but I shouldn't have underestimated the Islanders. After all, they did beat the Penguins.

Paul and I didn't fear the Islanders, though. Along with home-ice advantage, we were the more-rested team, having a week off compared to a couple of days for the Islanders. It showed in Game One. By the end of the second period, the score was 3-0 Canadiens. These are the type of games Paul and I thoroughly enjoy. Stress-free games. Nothing like it.

"You jinxed Patrick, Mer!"

"I'm sorry, Paul. I didn't know."

"Never, NEVER, mention that word, Mer. Okay?" Marisa had learned the first rule of watching shutout hockey: never utter the s-word, especially near the end of the game.

Montreal won Game One handily, 4-1. Game Two would be much closer. I had arrived at Paul's house late. To my surprise, there was an additional person watching the game that night: I was introduced to Joanne, a friend of Marisa's. And she was sitting in my seat! I had to say something. She was interrupting our routine and this would certainly bring bad luck to the Habs. I knew what I had to do. After some hesitation, I looked over to Joanne, whom I had never met before, and said, "Umm, you're, ah, sitting in my seat. Umm, do you mind sitting somewhere else? It's, umm, important."

"Oh...uh, sure."

"Come over here, Joanne, I'll explain everything. Don't mind them, they're crazy." Marisa was in the kitchen, graciously saving me from this awkward moment.

"Thanks." I sat down in my usual position as Paul laughed at me from his seat.

"Don't worry about it, Jack. I would have done the same thing."

Game Two was highly entertaining. The shots were fairly even with the Islanders holding a slight edge, 42-41. The game was finally decided in the second overtime as Stephen Lebeau scored on a beautiful three-on-two set-up. Game Three was settled the same way with a goal by Guy Carbonneau in the twelfth minute of overtime, a 2-1 victory. Another two overtimes that Paul didn't watch and quickly, Montreal was up in the series three games to none.

The following day, I was reading the newspaper, examining the sports pages thoroughly as I often do following a victory. I sifted through pages and pages of Leaf and other sports coverage before finding the statistics page. After absorbing the stats of Game Three (Benoit Brunet, one of my favourite players, had two assists but the power-play continued to struggle, going 0-for-3, 1-for-17 for the series), I flipped back to read the articles on the game. There was only one article on the game and it mentioned something I didn't want to acknowledge: last night's win was the eleventh straight victory for the Habs, tying an NHL record. Why did I have to find out that they tied a record and could break it the following night? Why?

The Canadiens lost Game Four 4-1, as expected. Hype a streak, expect defeat. It wasn't a big loss. We were still up three games to one, with Game Five in Montreal. There was no need for panic. Montreal completely dominated the fifth game to win 5-2. We were going to the Stanley Cup! Only four more wins to go.

Who would we face for Lord Stanley's Cup? The Los Angeles Kings or the Toronto Maple Leafs? Paul didn't care which team the Habs would have to face. He hated each team equally as much. We only had one worry on our minds: other hockey fans. Considering where we live, a Montreal-Toronto final would not only be an intense series but it would also create a war between the many households and bars in Ontario and Quebec. Father versus son, friend versus friend, and acquaintance versus acquaintance. A typical dialogue between a Hab fan and a Leaf fan:

"All you Leaf fans have finally come out of hibernation, jumping on the bandwagon. Where have you been the past 25 years?"

"Hey, I've always been a Leafs fan...anyway, we have something to cheer about now."

"Not for long." In the past couple of years, the rivalry has returned between the two teams and that includes the rivalry between the loyal fans of each team. The Toronto media and the amount of coverage and hype they gave the Leafs in the playoffs didn't help the animosity between the fans, either. Ottawa area hockey fans were inundated with this coverage by CBC, Global, TSN, and the Sun. To avoid the hype, Montreal Canadiens fans were forced to look for Montreal newspapers and to watch the few Montreal stations available in the Ottawa area.

Hype or not, it wasn't meant to be. The Los Angeles Kings defeated the Leafs in seven games, much to the chagrin of hockey fans eagerly anticipating the bloodbath between the Montreal and Toronto fans. A Toronto fan actually told me that he believed, in all seriousness, that there was a conspiracy afoot to make sure that the Leafs wouldn't reach the finals against the Habs. Believing in superstitions and rituals is fine. Conspiracies? Nah. Who was he trying to kid? Himself, maybe?

The Los Angeles Kings shocked the Montreal Canadiens in Game One of the finals, 4-1. In Montreal. Two power-play goals and an empty net goal were the difference. We allowed too many shots as we were outshot 38-32. What happened? Paul and I centred our curses and obscenities at Wayne Gretzky, who had a goal and three assists on the night. Had our Habs finally run out of steam? Or were our rituals finally wearing thin?

Fortunately, the Habs had plenty of steam left as they blasted the Kings 16-5 in shots in the first period of Game Two. Luckily for the Kings, Montreal was only up 1-0 on a goal by Eric Desjardins. Montreal dominated the game but, by the 8:32 mark of the third, Los Angeles had taken the lead 2-1. Kelly Hrudey had kept the Kings in the game. It took the stick incident for Montreal to tie the game: Marty McSorley had an illegal curve on his stick and he was given a penalty for the infraction with over two minutes left in the game. Jacques Demers pulled Patrick and Eric Desjardins scored with 1:13 left to even the game. Paul and I imagined ourselves as announcers: "What a huge lift for the Canadiens and such a demoralizing setback for the Kings!" The Habs didn't take long to capitalize in overtime as Eric Desjardins completed his hat trick 51 seconds into the period for the victory. The outcome, 3-2, did not reflect the domination by the Habs as Montreal had outshot the Kings 41-24. No matter. The series was even.

The next day, Alex and I talked about the infamous stick incident.

"Can you believe it, Alex?"

"It was pretty wild."

"Thank you, Marty McSorley...you loser."

"Were you watching Kerry Fraser as he was measuring the stick?"

"Yeah..."

"He seemed angry, didn't he? Couldn't you just imagine what he was saying to the Kings after the measurement: 'Sorry, guys...I have to call the penalty.'" Officiating a sport, especially hockey, must be the worst job in the world. You are maligned from all sides: the coaches, the players on the ice, and, worst of all, from the fans. Respect has to be earned but even once you gain it, losing it doesn't take much.

"No doubt it pissed him off."

"Well, we don't have to worry about him anymore in the series. Terry Gregson refs tomorrow. The Habs will win."

"Why do you say that?"

"They haven't lost a game this playoff when Gregson reffed."

"You're kidding."

"No joke. Besides, the Kings are a garbage team, anyway. The Wales Conference is the tougher division. They don't deserve to win."

"We shall see."

Alex was right. We won Game Three 4-3 in overtime on a goal by John LeClair. Montreal had led 3-0 but by the end of the second, the Kings had come back to tie the game. Thirty-four seconds into overtime, the game was decided and the Canadiens' overtime streak remained intact. Paul didn't have a chance to get comfortable in the other room this time around! I remember Paul racing into the living room and embracing me, nearly dislocating my jaw in the effort. He never did that again.

The next day, Paul and I chatted over the phone, discussing yet another overtime victory.

"If we can win one more game in L.A. then we could finish it in Montreal. That would be ideal. The Kings are confident, though. I don't know, I wouldn't be if I were them."

"All that stuff they tell the press is crap, Jack. B.S. Did you hear what Gretzky had to say: 'I learned a new rule tonight'. He's frustrated. He knows the truth. Life sucks, hunh Wayne?" Paul was referring to Gretzky's criticisms concerning a non-call on Guy Carbonneau. He had covered the puck under him in the crease and no penalty was assessed. However, the video replay showed that the cover-up was unintentional. Carbonneau had laid on the ice, hoping the puck was underneath him. It was. Paul continued to rant, "One player does not a team make, Wayne. It's a team sport, remember? That's why we're winning. Stop whining and complaining!"

"Ha ha, you said it."

"That's right."

Game Four started out well for us. By the five-minute mark of the second period, it was 2-0 Montreal. We were surprised that, for the second straight game, Montreal had jumped to an early lead. However, for the second straight game, the Kings bounced back to tie the game. They had tied the game with five seconds left in the second period from the now-legal stick of Marty McSorley. Paul was blaming this terrible turn of events on his wife. She had gone out dancing with her friends. For Marisa, the world still revolved during the hockey playoffs. For Paul and me, only hockey mattered. "All I'll say is this, Jack: if the game goes into overtime, she'd better be back in time." After all, she was my overtime partner. Being so close to winning the Stanley Cup only strengthened our resolve to stick to our rituals. We didn't want to risk jinxing our team at this stage of the series.

"Do you think she will?"

"If she loves me, she'll be here."

The third period was very entertaining as both teams had many scoring chances. Kelly Hrudey was spectacular at his end of the rink. Meanwhile, Patrick Roy was brilliant and flashy, exuding confidence as he winked at Tomas Sandstrom after a save. His confidence should have alleviated our concern. It did until the period ended. The game was still tied, heading into overtime. And still no sign of Marisa.

The intermission seemed much longer than fifteen minutes - closer to an eternity. Paul became more restless as time drew closer to the drop of the puck. I felt for him. "Well, Paul, don't--"

I was interrupted by the squeaky sound of Paul's front door opening. "Did overtime start yet?", asked Marisa as she rushed into the living room. Paul got up and kissed her.

"You made it."

"We were dancing and I noticed that the game was going into overtime. So I told my friends that I had to go. Don't ever say that I don't do anything for you, Paul!"

Marisa made all the difference in the world. We were in our usual positions, as was Paul, and at 14:37 of overtime, John LeClair scored from behind the net to give Montreal a commanding three games to one series lead. It was LeClair's second straight overtime goal and Montreal's tenth consecutive overtime win, an NHL record that won't be approached for a long, long time, if ever again.

Paul and I knew that Game Five in Montreal was a formality. Three straight overtime wins would be too much to overcome. The final game fell on a Wednesday, the same night we had a ball hockey game in Richmond! What could we do? How could we do both? Paul came up with a solution: he decided that he was going to bring a portable TV with him in the car! That night, Paul drove me to Richmond while I held the portable TV on my lap. I had to adjust the antenna and the position of the television frequently during the ride to keep the picture clear. By the time we reached Richmond, we had seen the entire first period. Montreal led 1-0 on a goal by Paul DiPietro. Due to the ball hockey game, we missed the second period, a period in which Montreal took the lead 3-1. Everything was under control. We won the ball hockey game and Montreal was winning. We were confident and excited as we rushed home to watch the third period. Twelve minutes into the third, Paul DiPietro scored his second goal of the game, ruining any chance of a Kings comeback. Montreal dominated the game and outshot them 29-19. After the game, Paul headbutted practically every Hab player as they celebrated. Even Jacques Demers received this special treatment. Patrick Roy had the honour of receiving a second headbutt from Paul for winning the Conn Smythe trophy. We were ecstatic. Paul took out a bottle of Harfang des Neiges champagne to celebrate this wondrous occasion.

Afterwards, Paul and I drove through downtown Ottawa and Hull. A flapping Canadiens flag on the roof of our car showed our delight to the city. By the end of the night, we had another car following us, creating our own mini-parade through the streets of Ottawa. A couple of days later, we went to see the real thing. Alex, Paul, and I went to Montreal to watch the Stanley Cup parade, a perfect way to end the hockey season.

In the one hundredth Stanley Cup year, the Canadiens picked up their twenty-fourth, adding another fond memory to their rich history. The players could now shave their goatees and their beards: the Habs and their fans had reached their goal.

Alas, that's ancient history. The New York Rangers, the best NHL team overall in the '93-94 regular season, won their first Stanley Cup in fifty-four years. The curse had finally been broken! Montreal had lost to Boston in seven games. The work they demonstrated in the winning the 1993 Stanley Cup was nonexistent in 1994. Patrick Roy seemed to be the only player that showed up in the series and he missed a game due to appendicitis. Injuries to Matt Schneider and the walking wounded among the defence didn't help either. The Canadiens were fortunate to go seven games. However, this did not ease the pain for Paul and me. We were angry. Paul was so upset that he wrote a poem which I have included so that any Hab fan reading this can be comforted by Paul's outpouring of emotion.

BRUINS AND LEAF FANS ARE ONE AND THE SAME

WHEN WILL THEY LEARN THE RULES OF THE GAME?

THE HABS LOSE EARLY, SO THEY LAUGH AND CRY "CHOKE"

BUT FOR TWO DECADES NOW, WHO'S BEEN THE JOKE?

WHILE WE SIP CHAMPAGNE EVERY COUPLE OF YEARS

THE BUDS AND THE BB'S HAVE BEEN DROWNING IN TEARS

THE GHOSTS IN THE FORUM HAVE MADE ROY A GOD

THERE'S NO SPIRITS IN THE GARDENS, ISN'T THAT ODD?

THEY JUST DON'T HAVE THE POWER OF THE RED-WHITE-AND-BLUE

WE'LL BE BACK NEXT YEAR WITH SOMETHING BETTER AND NEW SO UNTIL RAY OR DOUGGIE DRINK FROM "OUR" CUP

I REALLY WISH THESE FANS WOULD JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!!!

What had we done wrong? Obviously, this time around, our routines and rituals did not work. Why? When I asked this question to Paul, the accusations started to fly:

"It's your fault, obviously. What's different about this year? I'll tell you - you had your girlfriend come to watch the games this year! You didn't last year!"

"Oh yeah, how about you, Paul? I'm not the only one to blame!" Tempers were starting to flare...

"What do you mean?" Tension was mounting...

"You're the one who sold his house! The house that won the Habs the Cup! How could you? It was one-for-one, for pete's sake!"

"We'll never know now."

"No, we won't. You moved - sure, your address is numbered 33 - but that wasn't enough."

"You're right." We stared at each other for several minutes. And then we burst into laughter.

There has been a lot of talk about curses and superstitions ever since the Rangers won the Stanley Cup and exorcised their fifty-four year old curse. Paul and I had a discussion about curses with Chuck, my brother-in-law. He doesn't believe in curses or superstitions. He cheers for the Maple Leafs and doesn't worry himself about routines or rituals. We tried to convince him otherwise.

"But Chuck, it worked for us! The Habs did win the Cup last year. If you were a real fan, maybe your Leafs would've won the Cup this year."

"Oh, bullpuckey, Paul!" My nephew was in hearing range, playing with his toys. "It's just a coincidence and you know it."

"You're right - Toronto wouldn't have won the Cup. They need a second and third line first-"

"-I wouldn't talk."

I decided it was my turn to intervene. "Coincidence, Chuck? Come, come, Chuck, you're just jealous-"

"-PLEASE-"

"-of the success of the Montreal Canadiens organization."

"I think I'm going to puke."

"No need, Chuck."

"Boy am I glad I don't live with you guys. You're both crazy! To refresh your memories, the Rangers won the Cup this year."

"You bring up a good point, Chuck." He gave me the opening I needed to go rank on him. "Boston did beat us this year. They outworked us, true. Where did it get them? Nowhere."

Paul interjected, "Beating Montreal is like winning the Stanley Cup for them anyway."

"True. Ever since '88, Boston has dominated the Canadiens in the playoffs. That's fine. They pay for it in the end."

"What are you talking about?"

"They've never gone on to win the Cup after beating Montreal. The closest they got was in 1990 when they lost to Edmonton in the finals. What can I say - it's a curse."

"You crack me up, Jack."

"I'm not finished. I checked up on some Stanley Cup facts a while back. Only three teams that are still in existence have beaten the Canadiens in the Stanley Cup final: the Detroit Red Wings, who beat them three times, the last in '55, and they haven't won it since-"

"-Oh, come on-"

"The Calgary Flames beat them in '89 and haven't advanced past the first round since; and-"

"-would you-"

"The Toronto Maple Leafs, who also beat the Habs three times, the last in '67, and they, as you well know Chuck, haven't won it since. What I'm trying to say Chuck, is this: don't mess with the Habs - or suffer the consequences."

Paul continued the onslaught, "These can't be coincidences, Chuck, only the curse of a successful team. The ghosts are alive and well in the Forum."

"You're not well, Paul. And you too, Jack. You're both sick." SICK? US? We walked away and took his comments as a compliment.

LIAM MAGUIRE

HOCKEY TRIVIA EXPERT AND HAB FAN

This is not an isolated incident. Winning a Stanley Cup for your team is not as hard as it seems. In fact, other Canadiens fans have tried to pull similar stunts with varying degrees of success. Liam Maguire is no exception. He has always been a Montreal Canadiens fan and superstitious routines have been a part of him, as well.

Since he was a kid, he has been interested in hockey, watching and playing it. The Habs were his favourite team at a time (the seventies) when the team was constantly winning Stanley Cups. Obviously, like any fan, he enjoyed the success and wanted it to continue. And so it began: innocently at first as young Liam grabbed a ruler and bounced his red ball to the stairwell. The impression left by the success of the Habs crept into his everyday activity. The indoor ball hockey he played wasn't solely done to keep himself entertained: he was playing for his team. Every save he made was an attempt to mimic Ken Dryden. He wanted to be a part of his team's success. He was becoming a true fan.

By the time he was a teenager, his habits had changed. Indoor ball hockey became outdoor ball hockey. The stairwell became his snow-coated driveway, perfect for pick-up hockey. Every night before a Canadiens game, he marched out and did his duty - to win for his team...all by himself? Winter shovels stood tall as the guardians of the nets against Liam's rushes. Fifteen minutes was the time limit he gave himself, the outcome being an omen for the night's upcoming match. He believed that if he beat his opponent (and he tried equally as hard for both sides), the Habs would win that night. This was serious business. All the games were close and high-scoring but each loss devastated him as he would expect a similar outcome for the Habs that night. One winter, he did this for a whole season, until the end of the playoffs. For Liam, the stakes were high - Montreal's success depended on him.

By his last year of high school, Liam's transformation into a true fan had become complete. The Canadiens were continuing their winning ways, in the midst of four straight Stanley Cups in the late seventies. Two or three times a week during lunch break, Liam and his friends, hardcore Hab fans one and all, ate at McDonalds to break the monotony of cafeteria food and homemade lunches. Liam always had numbers in his head, no matter where he was. After the group ordered their burgers, fries, and drinks, a discussion began over the difference between a large order and a small order of fries. This was a big deal for a bunch of growing high school students. Which had the better value? Liam always ordered a large but never finished them all. Why is that peculiar? He allowed himself to eat only the number of fries that corresponded to a year ending in a Stanley Cup win for the Habs! 47 fries in total? No way - he ate 46. 55 fries? Not a chance - he ate 53. Of course, he was homefree if he had anything in the 56 to 60 range in his order. Liam wasn't worried about starving himself. He was more concerned about jinxing his team. The odds were in his favour that he would be able to eat enough fries to satisfy his stomach anyway.

During a Canadiens game, Liam always called a friend of his, Conrad Ogrodnick, in between periods. They disussed strategy as if they were coaching the Habs. Conrad stressed focus to the point that he didn't allow his family to eat during the first period. Beverages were fine but not a single morsel of food could be eaten. This would force everyone to concentrate on the important matter at hand: the hockey game.

In the late seventies, Liam's favourite players were Yvan Cournoyer and Guy Lafleur. Both were important parts of the Canadiens offence and both were right wingers, a fact not lost on Liam. To what lengths did he go for his team? Every time that Liam wiped his prescription glasses, he'd put away the Kleenex in his right pocket. Never his left pocket, always his right. He had become fixated with this right motif. One time, he had gone on a car trip with a group of friends and they had lost their way. They didn't know which way to turn. Liam offered, "When in doubt, go right, always right" to the groans of a Bruin friend and the laughter of his Canadiens pals. He had the last laugh, though. They found their way home.

Fifteen years later, and the superstitious routines haven't completely gone away. A couple of years ago, on top of an antique Coke machine in his home, Liam leaned up a sweatshirt box so that the Canadiens logo on it was visible to the entire room. It helped the '93 Canadiens win the Stanley Cup. However, this superstition required some work on his part. From time to time, he returned home to find that the box had fallen down. How? It couldn't have been a draft that caused this sacrilege. The culprit wasn't that hard to find: a friend of his is a Bruins fan. No doubt he did it, trying to undermine the Canadiens playoff run. Many people have said that the Bruins simply outworked the Canadiens in the '94 playoffs. Maybe that's not the real reason...

Liam considers the rivalry between Montreal and Boston to be the most intensive in hockey. He'll get few arguments, especially from the vocal fans of Montreal and Boston. It is probably the only statement both sides have ever agreed on! Wherever Liam goes, Bruin fans are sure to follow, bugging him about his team's recent playoff failures against Boston. He acknowledges the fact that Boston has beaten Montreal five out of the last six playoff series but immediately retorts rhetorically, "When did the Bruins last win the Cup?" (1972. He adds that the Habs have won seven since then.) This does not faze any Bruin fans, though. Instead, Liam is often reminded of other Bruin-Hab incidents. A notable story that is frequently repeated to him is the '78 Stan Jonathan-Pierre Bouchard tussle. Bouchard's nose was broken in the fight and the referee, John D'Amico, was also elbowed in the nose trying to break it up. The result: blood everywhere and the taunts and cheers of Bruin fans. Boston won that game but Liam is always happy to refresh their memory, adding that the Bruins went on to lose the next two and the series. As well, a defenceman named Larry Robinson had a 'little chat' with Stan Jonathan about the fight the next game. Liam enjoys reminding Boston fans about that conveniently-forgotten 'little chat'. Montreal-Boston is an intense rivalry. Rivalries this strong only strengthen the attachment fans have for their team.

Superstitions have always been part of Liam's routine. So has defending his team from trash talk and opposing views. In his lifetime (for that matter, in any Hab fan's lifetime), Liam can count on one hand the losing seasons the Canadiens have endured. This committment to success ensures the loyalty that every Hab fan gives. And that is why the routines and the rituals, like the Canadiens' mystique, never go away. As fans, it's the least they can do.