The following story was published last year . I have been fortunate to gain many followers on this site so I decided to re – print this story to start the new year !

Please enjoy …!

Every Saturday night after a home cooked meal, my Dad and I would settle down on the floor in front of the television set and get ready to watch Hockey Night in Canada.

Saturday was our day.

David Henry Keene – my Dad , owned a transport company and long hours prevented him from spending much time with me during the week. Somehow, he managed to find the time on the first day of the weekend as the two of us left the house just before noon and spent the day shopping. We shopped for guy stuff, we shopped for food and we always stopped somewhere ‘cool’ and had an afternoon snack or a drink.

Sometimes my Mom would come,  even if she did – my Dad and I always found ourselves alone at one point. I do not recall any conversations we had but to a young boy , being with Dad was the most amazing thing in the world and it did not matter what was said or where we were. I was with my Dad and I was proud.

Saturday Night

As the familiar theme from Hockey Night in Canada exited the speakers from our ‘state of the art ‘Hitachi console television, my heart would speed up because I knew that in mere minutes I would be seeing my Montreal Canadiens take to the ice and – more times then not – beat the opposing team. My Dad was not a Canadiens fan. He was not a fan of any particular team, he was a fan of any team that was playing against Les Habitants. The two of us would argue constantly over the course of a game, all the while our bodies as one as my head lay upon his chest.

“Beliveau and the Pocket Rocket were the greatest!” I would tell him as he countered with “Phil Esposito and Bobby Orr” on a night the Habs were playing the Big Bad Bruins.” No better goalie than Rogie Vachon.”  I would say countering my Dad’s ‘”Tony Esposito” as the Black Hawks attempted to beat my team.

The year was 1970, I was five years old and growing up. Maturing along with Les Canadiens as Dryden, Robinson,Shutt and Lafleur were emerging as stars. Others such as Savard, Lapointe and Lemaire were entering their prime. As the team ended a brief Bruins’ dynasty and traded cups with Chicago, my Dad was not around as much. He was battling heart problems. More times than not , I found myself alone in front of the television observing the on-ice exploits of  the ‘Big Three’ and the amazing performances of Lafleur, Cournoyer, Pete Mahovolich and the wise Henri Richard. It wasn’t the same without my Dad.

I was not allowed to play ice hockey due to the operations I had on my ears so I studied the game like a scientist. Every Wednesday and Saturday night,I was glued to the television observing arguably the greatest hockey team to ever play. Savard’s Spinerama, Robinson’s combination of grace and toughness, Lemaire’s uncanny playmaking ability and Guy Lafleur with his speed, shot and unexplainable feints.When I discovered that not only did I share the same hometown as Jacques Lemaire, but the same birthday – there was not a person in LaSalle, Quebec that was not aware of that particular fact.

During those years, every boy played street hockey. It didn’t matter if it was Summer, Spring, Fall or Winter. It did not matter if you were French or English – skinny or fat. Les Canadiens were the glue that connected everyone. Kids, teenagers and parents took to the ice or pavement and for the next few hours – became Guy Lafleur, Doug Risebrough or Murray Wilson. It was rare to see anyone sporting the blue and white of the Maple Leafs or the Red and White of the Detroit Red Wings. Everyone respected the likes of Gordie Howe, Stan Mikita and Jean Ratelle. They somehow did not have the mystique the players who suited up for the Montreal Canadiens had – they were ‘human’.

If you took the frozen tennis ball on a street-long rush you were The Flower. If you made a save with your baseball glove you were no longer Rick Keene, you now became Ken Dryden or on occasion Michel ‘Bunny’ Larocque. The game would start at 9 a.m. and, aside for two half-hour breaks for unimportant things like lunch or supper, the games would continue into the night. The game and the day would end with one player practising a wrist shot in between two large rocks that transformed into goalposts for a day.

Sad Times

Just as the Habs were beginning their journey into hockey history with a first of four consecutive Stanley Cups, my Dad succumbed to a third heart attack bringing an inevitable double bypass operation to help prolong his life and in return, a longer relationship with me. The operation was successful and more importantly to me – my Dad was home all the time while recuperating. It was at this time, upon completion of a third operation on my ears, I discovered that I was allowed to play organized hockey come Fall.My Dad and I went on a shopping trip to the local sports store. I was equipped form head to toe with all the tools I needed to become the next superstar of the Montreal Canadiens.

I’m sure many people were surprised to see a 10-year-old boy walking around in mid – July wearing a full Canadiens uniform. To me it did not matter. Much  to the chagrin of my Mom and Dad. For the first couple of weeks I ate in that uniform, slept in that uniform and – aside from the problems of re-positioning my jockstrap when I went to the bathroom – I adored that uniform. I could not wait for September. It was my birthday on the seventh, the 20th was my very first hockey practice, the Canadiens were taking to the ice once more and my Dad was alive and healthy. School was the only negative, but with everything else being so exciting – it appeared as a minor detail.

Two weeks after school started, one week after my birthday and a few days before my first hockey practice – my Dad passed away from a massive heart attack.

 He would never get to see me play hockey.

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