Hockey 2023: A funny thing happened on the way from the Forum

Quinn McIlhone

Confined to the Plateau-Mont-Royal for years by arthritis and the virus, I ventured southwest last week to the Bell Centre for Blue Jackets vs. Canadiens.

The arena is built at a perilously sharp angle, and for days I’d been dreading taking my seat. The hand rail breaks off to allow access to both sides of the aisle, and I lack balance and confidence. With no rail I made my way down by flopping from seatback to seatback, tricky when the seat is occupied.

But I got there, to a hideously expensive perch to the side of the net, perhaps a half-dozen rows from the ice. These seats are the reds, traditional haunt of Westmount lawyers and their clients. I spotted no jurists, but the area was crawling with guys who might need one – big, tough middle-aged men who looked like off-duty Hells Angels.

Just as Molson Stadium attracts an inordinate number of stocky, thick-set guys who once played football, and the Forum I first visited in 1960 was full of men 5-foot-8 in toe rubbers cheering muscular 5-foot-9 players, contemporary hockey enthusiasts tend to the 6-foot-2, 215-pound model currently favoured by the NHL.

I know logically that every big man in the crowd can’t be an outlaw motard, but you don’t see these guys when you live in the Plateau. We tend to be rail-thin rock frontmen, trilingual chefs who cycle to work, or activists intent on converting Camillien Houde to a jogging track.

Lots of the fans are built like players, but the crowd as a whole reflects the larger society. Hockey is a niche sport and the old Forum crowd used to be mainstream French and English, but now there are new generations of hardcore minority and immigrant fans kitted out in team memorabilia.

The two guys in front of me chant “Go Habs Go” in a continental French accent. The crowd mirrors the diversity of downtown Montreal, people of every hue united by the “Caufield” on the back of their jerseys.

Conspicuous consumption is encouraged in the reds. The whistle no sooner blows than we are besieged by vendors of popcorn, pretzels and the city’s most expensive beer.

A big tip isn’t the only route to ostentation. It’s date night in the exclusive seats directly behind the glass, and the women are dressed to create a stir, a gesture sadly missed in the pandemic years. The ladies’ well-groomed escorts seem to devote equal time and expense to their own appearance and wardrobe.

The female seated beside me is perhaps 10 years old and hyperactive. She’s up and down, here and there, and leaps out of her seat when the goalie makes a save in front of us. I want to tell her I saw goalies without masks, back when Jean Béliveau was in his prime and the Rocket his dotage, but it would mean nothing to her. Perhaps her father could explain it, but as I study him I realize he’d probably have to look it up. I stay silent.

The game? Cole Caufield popped the winner in OT. Storybook ending, October classic. There hadn’t been this much joy in the Big Babel since Patrick Roy winked.

It rained on the mosh pit when the hardcore fans celebrated outside the Bell Centre, hundreds of drenched youths thrashing, dancing and drinking, the downpour heaven sent after the many years we have wandered winless in the desert.

I watched from a distance and didn’t envy the exultant young people. I’d seen three dynasties at their age. I limped an unnecessary block west rather than risk heading home through the victory party.