Right after dropping off my girlfriend last night I saw a group of youth sporting Canadiens caps and jerseys walking around outside. "Ah," I thought to myself, "they are very likely to know how the game went."
"It wasn't a good one man. Five one," replied one of them dejectedly. How crushing.
Now you're probably wondering why someone who's writing on the newest, hottest Montreal sports blog actually did not watch the game and had to ask other people how it went in order to find out. Well let me tell you right away. I'm not a hockey fan. Not that I hate the sport, I'm just rather indifferent to the whole thing.
The word "puck" sooner makes me think of Shakespearian trickster gnomes than what you play the game with, and there's a poster of Kirk Muller in his Canadiens jersey hanging on my wall, a vestige of my very brief fascination with the world of ice and body checks when I was 10 years old.
But I do love Montreal. And there's something special about this city right now, a certain…atmosphere. It feels like everyone's come together, like at the height of a Hollywood war or disaster epic, burying old wounds (well, except maybe the firefighters' union and Montreal), to stave off an invasion by the enemy army of aliens/robots/Nazis.
Yesterday night as we left the downtown core, we still had no idea whether the Canadiens had lost or won, but there wasn't such a good vibe coming from around us. Crowds were not spilling jubilantly out of bars and pubs, none of the Canadiens or No. 27 flag-baring cars were honking at each other in celebration, and even the ambulance sirens seemed to be wailing plaintively.
So when that disappointed youth told me we lost, it confirmed my suspicion and made me feel all the worse. "It's OK, though we'll get them back in Boston," he added. Damn straight, I nodded as I drove off. We'll get them back in Boston. We'll kick some extra-terrestrial ass.