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We remember the ghosts that lived in the Old Forum. They
had migrated from the previous one into the newer modern
version. They were carrying a torch of formidability for
posterity. It was a place where legends were born and
majestic teams ruled in the spirit of what was the grandeur
of Rome. Effortlessly, artistically and powerfully they dazzled
not only their fans and opponents alike but themselves too.

The ghosts made their presence felt one last time in a
game between the great Montreal Canadiens, Les
Habitants, Nos Glorieux, and Toronto Maple Leafs in what
was the last year before they tore down the old rink. One
gets the sense that the ghosts were hanging around on this
somber day. It is as if they had no intentions of moving
again. They did not like what they foresaw down the road.
Some were fixing the banners of all those Stanley Cups,
others were playing around on the ice chasing each other,
still others sat back and listened to the play-by-play of a
game between the Red Wings and Bruins broadcast on the
radio. “Hey, do you think Terry Sawchuk, Eddie Shore, and
Dit Clapper are at the Gardens tonight?” shouted Bill
Durnan a standout goalie for the Habs. “Nah” joked Aurel
Joliat; “They want to stay here! Same for

The present Habs were a mere shadow of their former
selves. They were a team that was mismanaged and with it
its tradition of excellence. Vision was lost to designers of
this once majestic franchise. No one is really sure how this
was allowed to happen. Some believe that the Habs will
rise again one day. After all, the dynasties of the New York
Yankees and Green Bay Packers were able to do it. Why
shouldn’t Les Canadiens complete the Triumvirate? Maybe
one day the Boston Celtics will join in. It will be a return to a
Golden Age.

On this typically cold night, Montreal is losing 4-1 heading
into the third period to their archrivals Toronto Maple Leafs.
“Where are these fricken ghosts” one player on the bench
asks. Peetie, a strong and effective player for the Habs, tells
him there are no ghosts. “Get a grip and play hard” he
continues. “Just get the puck to J-P.”

In the stands, a young fan feels like his life is coming apart.
“Will the ghosts come through, Dad?” he asks. “They always
do son.” The father unconvincingly tells his son.

Howie Morenz, the Stratford Streak, Montreal’s first legend,
overhears the conversation on the bench. He had spent
most of the game taping his hockey sticks and wasn’t much
interested in the game. Suddenly he wasn’t so indifferent.
He summons the lads for one more round of magic.

“What do you say boys?” Morenz proposes. Out of the clear,
The Rocket passes by and tells them about the boy who
believed in them. “I’m in” he decides. The others followed.

On his next shift, Peetie gets off the bench and scores an
incredible goal. 4-2. He came sweeping in from the left side
and lifted a backhand shot with deadly accuracy into the top
of the net. Peetie was a hustler not known for such flair.
Even the French players were impressed. “If Peetie could
score like dis evry game, hostie we’d beat all de teams all
de time” quipped Jean-Paul with an ear to ear smile, their
leading scorer. The coach comes over “What the hell got
into you? Good job.”

Even Peetie wondered. “Lucky shot” he murmurs to himself.
He goes down to tighten his skate. As Peetie looks up he
sees something flash by. He nudges his teammate. “Did
you see that?” The team mate responds “See what?” Peetie
could have sworn he saw #7 fly by.

The Habs are playing uncharacteristically with marvel and
style. Their skating reminds some in the stands of the old
Habs. One fan shouts, “Who do you guys think you are? The
Second Coming of ‘56 and ‘78?” Jean-Paul, at that moment,
breaks between two Leaf defensemen and scores. They
look back haplessly and amazement as they look at each
other realizing that assigning blame was futile. 4-3 with 4
minutes to go. Jean-Paul shakes his head at an image he
thinks he just saw. “#9? Nah.”

No one ever thought that Mario would be the next one to tie
this game up. He did. 4-4. He could have sworn he saw #2
flash before he scored. The energy in the Forum is electric.
If one could read body language, the Leafs had resigned
themselves to defeat. One player remarked later “It was as if
the ghosts came down and played the game.”

In the broadcast booth Danny Gallivan the sweet voice of
Montreal Canadiens radio play-by-play calls the game as he
winks to Dick Irvin who somehow was able to see him.
Behind the bench stands a stoic Toe Blake. He glances
over the coach and his notes and ensures what will work
and what will not. The ghosts have arrived.

The game is not won. There are 33 seconds left in this
critical game. Peetie bolts down the wing taking whacks and
pushing off opponents and out of the corner of his eye he
sees all past Montreal Canadien legends around him, he
let’s a ferocious slap shot go. He scores! Habs lead 5-4.
Doug Harvey taps Peetie’s knees with his stick. Peetie was
too much in the moment and did not realize what had just
happened. He felt the tap and figured it was his linemate
Mario.

The proud Toronto Maple Leafs, however, will not leave
without a fight. One of their fine players fakes the goalie with
3 seconds to go…What a save! Habs win! Behind the net,
one could have sworn Vezina and Plante were chuckling.

With the arena emptying out the young boy and his father in
the stands wait a little while longer absorbing the victory.
“Dad” asks the young boy. “Yes, Steve” the father replies.
“Dad, look on the ice.” The father looks down and squints
lightly. Father and son, together they got a glimpse of the
ghosts whom were congratulating each other. While they
sat and watched in utter amazement, one of the ghosts, in a
tuque and a woolen Habs jersey, winks, smiles, skates
away and vanishes.

Incredible. Later, as the lights were shutting down, the
ghosts hugged one another and skated off the ice for the
last time. They were tired. They swore they would come
back one day. Maybe #23 could pick up and assemble
together the fragmented pieces fallen to the ground that was
once a symbol of excellence that transcended sports. The
illustrious ‘C’ may indeed shine one day like the beacon
Dante saw when he left the Inferno with Virgil.