This is not a column I ever thought I’d write.
Growing up, there were three constants in my life: a near crippling anxiety that was characterized as “shyness;” an obsession with the Toronto Maple Leafs; and a hatred of the Montreal Canadiens.
I’ve been able to wrestle the former into submission on most days, but the other two have plagued me my entire life. Being a Leaf fan is not for the faint of heart, and friends, many of whom are clearly concerned about the effects of constant disappointment on my state of mental health, often ask me, “Why don’t you pick another team?”
I struggle to respond to the question because it’s not something that’s easily answered. I didn’t really choose to be a Leaf fan. The team sort of chose me, or at least that’s my recollection of it.
It was the mid-70s, and the National Hockey League (NHL) was under siege. The Broadstreet Bullies, otherwise known as the Philadelphia Flyers, were in the midst of back-to-back championships in 1974 and 1975. The Flyers played a brand of hockey not before seen in the nearly 50-year history of the league.
They were goons, intimidating other teams with an attitude that only winning mattered, and that anything must be done to achieve that goal, even if it meant going well beyond the constraints of what was considered sportsmanlike.
There’s no arguing that they had talent on their roster. Led by Hall of Fame netminder Bernie Parent, team captain Bobby Clarke and steady goal production from the likes of Bill Barber, Reggie Leach and Rick MacLeish, they probably could have won their two cups honestly. But that wasn’t their style.
For three consecutive seasons (1975, 1976 and 1977), the Leafs met the Flyers in the league quarterfinals. The Leafs were building a pretty good team themselves, with captain Darryl Sittler, sniper Lanny MacDonald, defenseman Borje Salming and netminder Mike Palmateer providing a solid core. But they simply couldn’t find an answer for the Flyers’ take-no-prisoners style of play.
My father showed no interest in hockey, but my mother was a staunch Leaf fan and that could well have played into it. But I really think the Leafs’ three consecutive playoff appearances against Philadelphia galvanized my support for Toronto. It was good versus evil, sportsmanship versus thuggery.
It was following the Leafs’ second playoff loss to Philadelphia in 1976 that the Flyers finally met their match in the form of a team from Montreal that was about to embark on a string of four consecutive Stanley Cups.
The Habs of the late 70s were arguably the greatest team ever assembled, with Hall of Famers throughout the lineup. From Guy LaFleur, Steve Shutt and Bob Gainey up front, Larry Robinson, Serge Savard and Guy LaPointe on the blueline, and, of course, Ken Dryden in net, the Canadiens lost the grand total of three games in the four final series in which they claimed the NHL’s top prize. In fact, during the 1976-77 regular season, they set a record that stands to this day, recording just eight losses in an 80-game season.
So, for the fan of a Maple Leaf team that was often in constant disarray thanks to an owner in Harold Ballard who resented any success his team achieved if it overshadowed his own sizable ego (think Donald Trump with a hockey team), there was a lot to dislike about the Montreal Canadiens.
But this wasn’t just any run-of-the-mill aversion. It ran much deeper than that, to the point that a Montreal loss was celebrated with the same zeal that greeted a Leaf win. That disdain softened over the years, but it was always present, which is why it’s so hard to admit that this past Sunday evening, I committed what until then was unfathomable. I suddenly found myself rooting for the Montreal Canadiens.
With the Edmonton Oilers bowing out to the Anaheim Ducks last Thursday, the Canadiens represented Canada’s last chance to bring the Stanley Cup back to north of the border we share with the United States, where the cup has resided since 1993, when Montreal won its last championship.
You may wonder why the intervening 33 years failed to make a Canadiens’ fan out of me. I can only say that something seems different this time around. Still stinging from Canada’s loss to the U.S. in the Olympic gold medal game, I feel like there’s so much more at stake this time around. So profound has been the Trump effect on my psyche, that I’ve committed the once-unthinkable sin of cheering for the Habs.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not abandoning the Leafs. Frankly, I don’t know how to quit them. It’s an abusive relationship for sure, and it’s not doing anyone any favours. But, for now, as Montreal prepares for its second round series with the Buffalo Sabres, which begins today, I am firmly on board the Montreal train. In what’s clearly the height of irony, it’s the “Red, White and Blue” that’s pushed me to support the “Rouge, Blanc et Bleu.”
So please allow me to apologize up front – and not to other Leaf supporters, but to Montreal fans if I happen to bring any of my questionable Leaf mojo along with me.