Full Marks

Guy Carbonneau pounced on the puck at centre ice. Paul Baxter gave him a two-hander across the ankle. But Carbonneau cut in on the Calgary goal, where Jamie Macoun tripped him and he slid into the back of the net, ramming into goalie Mike Vernon on the way. Carbo clambered onto his skates. No penalty: after all, this was the Stanley Cup final with no more than two minutes to go in a do-or-die game for the Calgary Flames, trailing 3–1 in the series.

At the same time, in Yvan Cournoyer's Brasserie No. 12, the Pocket Rocket's place, and in bars and pubs all across Canada, tens of thousands of Canadiens fans slammed their fists on the table or leaped to their feet in rage. They threw their arms in the air, a pint of beer in hand, knocking over chairs and dousing their neighbours with suds. No one noticed; no one cared. The game was what mattered. In Montreal and Calgary, of course, but also from tiny fishing villages in the Maritimes and the Gaspé, to the other side of the Rockies, on the banks of the Pacific, to the remotest regions of the Far North, millions of Canadians had their eyes riveted on the TV. For the first time in 19 years, since 1967, when Canada, hockey's birthplace, commemorated its centennial, two Canadian teams were squaring off in the Stanley Cup final.

The Flames called a timeout. Their fans quaffed some brew to settle their nerves. But Patrick Roy, surprisingly calm considering what was at stake, moseyed over to his bench and sipped a little water. Then he tugged his mask over his sweat-drenched face. The Habs hunkered down to protect their slim 4–2 lead. With nothing to lose, the Flames launched an all-out attack.

With 1:16 minutes remaining, it was the Canadiens' turn to take a timeout to regroup and break the Flames' momentum. While patrons in their local sports bars could watch Patrick twitching his head on six screens at a time, Richard Garneau broke into the colour commentary of analysts Gilles and Mario Tremblay. "There's the Conn Smythe Trophy winner right there! It's normal. Several players deserve the honor, but with a goals against average of about 1.80, it's hard not to pick him. He's had a fantastic playoffs."

Play resumed in the Canadiens' end, and Calgary fans were on their feet, cheering and applauding. Joel Otto unleashed a wicked drive; Patrick made the save. Calgary wouldn't let up. Dan Quinn fired at point-blank range; Patrick rose to the challenge. But Quinn snatched the rebound behind the net and fed Joe Mullen, camped in the slot. Mullen scored, cutting Montreal's lead to a single goal.

Only 46 seconds remained — 46 long seconds. Meanwhile, under the Saddledome stands, the champagne was already on ice. Technicians were gearing up for post-game interviews in the dressing rooms.

Could the Flames draw even, snatch the victory, win the sixth game in Montreal and return to Calgary for the final and decisive match with all bets off? Would the Canadiens, the most decorated team in sports history, drop the torch passed them by the battered arms of Richard, Béliveau, Lafleur?

The very idea could haunt Canadiens fans, the brain trust, and even a few players. Nothing tempts fate more than a nervous team playing back on its heels. But Patrick had no time for negativity. He had the same fire in his eyes that we had seen in the Rocket years ago. He focused on the game, not the outcome.

Play resumed. Mike McPhee nearly ended the suspense when he intercepted a pass at center ice and broke into the clear. But his nerves got the better of him. Instead of skating right in on goal and making a play — he had all the time in the world — he took a long shot that was child's play for Vernon. A glorious chance gone begging.

The Flames launched a final assault, a desperately furious siege. Paul Reinhart scooped up the puck from his goalie, raced to center ice and dumped the puck in beside the Montreal goal. Patrick intercepted the puck and cleared it to the corner. The Flames stormed around the Habs' net. Al MacInnis beat the Montrealers to the puck and fired a bullet. Patrick made the save but couldn't control the rebound and the puck bounced off to his right onto Macoun's stick. Macoun ripped the tying goal into the back of the net. Behind him, John Tonelli raised his arms in celebration. But the goal judge hadn't flashed the red light. Incredulous, Macoun strode forward, searched the net. He couldn't find the puck! Patrick had dived, made a miraculous save and smothered the puck. From the Canadiens' bench, Bobby Smith chanted, "Roo-wah! Roo-wah!"

Less than 14 seconds from the end of regulation time, Carbonneau won the face-off in the Canadiens' zone. Chelios picked up the puck and, with three Flames hounding him and seven seconds remaining, he slipped it to Rick Green, who cleared the zone. Mario Tremblay, forgetting he was behind a mike, whooped with glee.

Against all expectations, the Canadiens had won their 23 Stanley Cup, with eight rookies in the lineup.

It was nearly eleven p.m. in Calgary; almost 1:00 a.m. in Cap-Rouge. I clicked off the TV.

* * *

The doorbell rang. Two reporters, one Francophone and an Anglophone, had been waiting in their cars for the match to end so they could come and interview me. Earlier in the afternoon, one of them had suggested they spend the evening with us while a cameraman recorded our reactions during the game for a TV sportscast. I refused. I hate that kind of voyeurism. I wanted the family to savor every moment in peace.

The public hungers for every detail about a superstar's life: the car he drives, his favorite meals, the color of his cat. The media happily put his proud parents on display. People may want to get a look at their idol's folks, but apart from the usual platitudes, they are not interested in what the parents say or think. People would no more expect to hear something insightful from them than from the car or the cat. To most fans, the parents are of little more interest than the objects that are part of the Star's daily life. But if Mom or Dad should happen to shed a tear, it's fodder for the six o'clock news.

I greeted the journalists.

* * *

On the Saddledome ice, the Canadiens were jumping for joy, hugging, throwing their arms around each other, releasing the tension accumulated from the nearly two-month playoff grind. Victory is an analgesic. Victory washes away fatigue,...