Montréal Dreamin’

El Brown
El Brown
Jul 28, 2017 · 6 min read

I found this while moving to a new computer. I spent the day digging through some folders I haven’t looked in for years and there it was. What it shows is that the Montréal obsession didn’t start in 2013, when I fell head over heels for the Habs. It’s always been there, lurking in my subconscious. I literally dreamed about the place — and hockey — as far back as the mid-nineties. The date metadata on this piece can’t be trusted, but other pieces in the same folder reference the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta as if they’d just happened, so there’s that. Enjoy.


I’m in Montréal, Quebec at a hockey game. This is an old building… definitely not the new Centre Molson, but not quite old enough to be the Fo­rum either. It’s laid out more like a huge church than an arena. The rows aren’t lined up quite right. There are support structures — not beams, more like walls — in all the wrong places. This is a church, I finally decide. Her religion: Hockey.

The Penguins are playing Les Habitants. I’m sit­ting in the middle of the hockey-church. A puck leaves play and drops into the row behind a child. It’s just then I notice there are a lot of Black people at this place. You almost never see Black people at hockey games — unless they’re cleaning up or serving food. But these are beautiful, smiling, happy Black chil­dren. One of them picks up the puck and you can see how the simple act has made his day. The other children look on in awe. Even the girls. They too want pucks.

At one point just before the puck incident, I’m talking to someone who’s talking to one of the Canadiens’ players. The Habs are wearing their home whites and lookin’ good. My new acquaintance shouts something in English to the player. He shouts back. The children turn and look, sort of amazed. The adults turn and glare, sort of irritated. Who knows what was said in the bizarre exchange.

At this point, I get up and go to the very front of the hockey-church and this explains a little just how weird the place is laid out. If it were just a church, I’d be in the front pew. Facing forward. If this were an arena, I’d be off to the side. For where I’m sitting, I have to turn my head to the left and backwards to see the rink.

The Penguins, by the way seem to be running up the score. It’s like 12–2 at this point. Not a likely hockey score, but that’s what the scoreboard says. Speaking of the scoreboard, there’s a bearded man sitting right in front of me. He’s tinkering with a computer terminal that’s on the floor, under a table. The scoreboard dims and brightens accordingly. Why he’s messing with this thing during the game is not known.

All of a sudden, Penguins coach Eddie Johnston [Note: Johnston coached the Penguins in two stints, between 1980 and 1997.] is in the aisle next to us saying “Where’s Alek, where’s Alek?” to the bearded man. I’m really wowed that E.J. is talking to my new “friend.” The bearded guy points forward, to a draped door past the table with the computer under it. E.J. looks pissed and goes away. The Alek he was looking for is Alek Stojanov [with Pittsburgh between 1995–1997 — the date of this piece is becoming clear], the Penguins’ resident goon [he wasn’t, really]. It looks like the game is getting a bit physical.

I get to talking to this bearded man again and it turns out he works with Le Club de Hockey. I’m impressed. I unconsciously whip out my wallet to give him one of my Channel 4 cards and am in­stantly ashamed that I still carry my cards in the blue, plastic card carrier that came with the box of cards. I explain that it keeps the cards “clean.” He gives me a card. It doesn’t say Montréal Ca­nadiens on it, but I don’t question things.

I go back to my original seat and watch some more of the game. The score is ridiculous. I think it’s 27–10 or 27–12 or some­thing obscene like that. The Penguins are win­ning. Suddenly a puck leaves play and hits me in the shoulder. Hey, what do ya know!? I’ve got a puck! It’s got glittery, gold paint on it. A cute, little girl in the row behind me gives me that “Hey mister” look and I reluctantly give the puck to her. Embar­rassed but grateful, the girl’s mother gives me a thank you nod.

Apparently restless, I leave my seat again. This time I ease closer to the action, about halfway between my original seat and the bearded man. As the game heats up, I bump into another guy sitting in the area. I don’t even acknowledge him until he clears his throat as if saying “Excuse me.” I apologize and together we watch some more of the game.

I must’ve been tired from the trip or something, because all of a sudden I look back and notice all the play­ers have left the ice and most of the fans have left the hockey-church. I ask a straggler, a woman, where everyone’s gone. She doesn’t express sur­prise at my asking and simply explains that the game indeed got out of hand and the ref decided the last 1:17 would be played Wednesday. I guess it’s a home-and-home.

I look to where I was originally sitting in the hockey-church and see my bag. It has my leather folder in it, my wallet, some cash and various other necessities. I’m amazed at my carelessness for leaving it there and move on.

On the way out, I notice just how unique this hockey-church complex really is. Hybrid, multi-use architecture at its finest. High ceilings like a church. Long corridors like an arena. Everything is marble. Stair railings and detail treatments are brass. It really is beautiful.

I step out into the brisk Montréal night. As soon as I get onto the street, I’m approached by a skinny man in a white shirt. He asks why I don’t have my light on. I obviously don’t understand the question. He explains you have to have a light on your wrist when you’re carrying a bag. I don’t get it and become really nervous as he starts to in­spect my bag.

He sees the underwear I’d packed, the cash… everything. He asks where I’m going and we con­tinue walking towards my destination. I can see my red Dodge Caravan [I really did drive one in 1997] parked up ahead. It’s in someone’s driveway. The single story houses on this street are kind of old, with metal awnings and a stoop where you walk up three stairs to get to the front door. Noth­ing fancy.

As the skinny guy and I cross the street, another guy approaches us. He asks me for ID. I’m really apprehensive now. I explain I’m in a foreign country and one guy who doesn’t look like a cop has already taken my bag and now another guy who doesn’t look like an official of any kind is asking for my wallet. I explain how unaccept­able the situation is and that he’s got no chance of getting his hands on my wallet.

Just then I look up and notice a fat woman on the front porch of the house next to where my van is parked. She says the guys are cool and that I should comply. I’m still weary. Just then, an ugly, 20-something girl comes out of the house where the van is parked. “She’s got really bad teeth,” I’m thinking. Very “French frog-looking.” I know that’s a slur, but now you’ve got a men­tal picture of this girl, right?

Anyway, the ugly girl with the bad teeth also tells me to comply. I’m starting to hear “Resistance is futile. You must comply.” in my head. I comply. The guy scans my license. The Frog-girl looks over his shoulder at my awful three-year-old picture. They’re even more fascinated, I guess, because some Canadian provinces don’t have pictures on their driver’s li­censes.

All of a sudden everyone’s laughing. The last thing I remember is taking my picture with my new Canadian friends. I don’t know whether the bearded man ever called. I don’t know the final score of the hockey game. I don’t even know whether E.J. ever found Alek Stojanov — or why Alek wasn’t on the bench if they were in the middle of a game at the time.

As you can see, this dream ends with many ques­tions unanswered.

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