by Jack Falla
I told her how Hattigan called me at the airport just as the flight was boarding. “What it comes down to is that Montreal was desperate for a goaltender and Boston was desperate for a scorer. No other teams would trade with them so they traded with each other. The Canadiens are only obligated to pay me the rest of the contract I had with Boston. After that I can re-sign with them—if they make an offer—or I can become an unrestricted free agent.”
“Do you think they’ll make an offer?”
“Yes, if Claude is finished.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because you don’t have to be Henry the Navigator to see that Montreal is about a ninety-minute drive from Burlington, Vermont. We’ll be closer with you in Montreal than if you were in Boston. This must be what my grandfather meant when he said, ‘You never know when you might be getting a break.’”
“Your grandfather ever get traded?”
“There wasn’t a big market for Cambridge city workers who booked baseball and boxing bets on the side,” she said. “Look, all I’m saying is that this deal might not be as bad as it feels now. And you don’t have to go. You can quit today if you want to.”
“And then what?”
“Well … I don’t mean to kick you when you’re down, Jean Pierre, but that’s a question I’ve asked you before. What next?”
“I’ll call my mother, Denny Moran, and the Canadiens,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
I phoned my mother, who, like Faith, didn’t seem as upset as I’d thought she’d be. “It will all work out for the best, Jean Pierre. It always has. I think God has a plan for you,” she said, tumbling back into the net of Catholicism that had broken so many of life’s falls for her.
“If God’s plan is to make me sick, lonely, pissed off, publicly humiliated, and unhappy He’s doing a helluva job,” I said.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I’ll call Denny and he can feel sorry for both of us,” I said.
“He’s not in his office. He’s at the Portland Marriott,” she said.
I almost asked her how she knew what hotel my agent was in but then I thought better of it. There was a new lilt in my mother’s voice since she’d started seeing Denny. I was happy for her.
“Montreal will want to keep you, JP,” Denny said. “I hear Rancourt’s all done so they’ll have his slot under the salary cap. And their GM, Lou St. Martin, will be a lot easier to deal with than Hattigan. The money will be about the same as in Boston. It’s only a question of how many years you want to play. I think we could get four. Maybe five.”
“No. I don’t want to play more than three, Denny. Make it two if that’ll push up the salary and make-able bonuses.”
“How about we make it two years and a hundred hours of community service. Christ, JP, you’re the only guy I know who can make earning three million for nine months’ work sound like a prison sentence.”
“Talk to Sweet Lou and keep me up to speed. I have to call Picard.”
“One more thing, JP.”
“What?”
“Does your mother like sushi?”
I hung up on Denny and phoned Jean Picard, who said his club needed me “as soon as that Ferrari you drive can get you here. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “I can practice Friday and play Saturday if you need me.”
Picard said they needed me and that they’d reserved a suite for me at the Queen Elizabeth.
I hung up, turned to Faith, and said: “A free suite, minibar, cable TV, and twenty-four-hour room service. This would be a great job if it wasn’t for the puck.”
By now the city’s two all-sports radio stations had broken news of the trade and my phone was ringing incessantly. I took a call from Lynne Abbott and gave her the usual vanilla quotes about a trade: “I’ll miss Boston … thank the fans for me … a door closes, a door opens … blah, blah, blah.” None of it said how I really felt, which was awful.
“Either we shut off the phone or we get out of here,” Faith said.
We walked the length of Newbury Street to Sonsie, where the diners Faith referred to as “louche Euro-trash” wouldn’t recognize a hockey player from a pile of eggs Benedict.
“I have to leave in the morning,” I said.
“I want to come with you. We can split the driving. I’ll fly back Monday.”
“Thanks. It’ll help if you’re there.”
We got back to my place to find my old-fashioned answering machine maxed out on messages, the best of which was from Cam’s father:
“I just heard the news, JP. I’m so goddamn mad I might call Gabe Vogel and buy his goddamn team just so I can send that goddamn Hattigan scouting in the Ukraine. If you don’t feel like putting up with this bullshit you can have a job with me. And next home game I’m having a lease-breaking party in our corporate suite. Fill that thing with so many drunks and hookers it’ll look like Forty-second Street.”
“You know it’s really an option, JP,” Faith said. “Why not take a job with Cam’s dad and end this right now?”
“Because I could never figure out how to play the angles in a business meeting. I’m a professional player. A professional is an amateur who didn’t quit.”
* * *
We took Boss Scags and left early. Faith did most of the driving, which meant we were in Montreal in time for lunch, after which Faith went back to the hotel and I walked to the Bell Centre to meet Jean Picard.
“Jean Pierre. Bonjour. Hello. Welcome to Montreal,” the coach said, rising from behind a desk the size and shape of Manitoba. Picard looked like one of those older male models you see in upscale men’s magazines: salt-and-pepper hair perfectly parted, navy blue pin-striped suit and a white shirt with French cuffs held together with small gold monogrammed links, an almost dainty counterpoint to his massive gold Breguet watch. It struck me that Picard had traveled a long and prosperous road from the scrappy hatchet-faced left wing he’d been in his twelve seasons playing for the Canadiens to his current position as coach of one of the most distinguished sports franchises in the world.
Picard asked me if I liked to know ahead of time if I was starting. It was the first time a coach ever asked me that. Knowing days ahead that I’m going to start makes me nervous, I told him. “But I’d rather be nervous than surprised. I can program anxiety.”
“Well, you’re playing Saturday against Toronto. And probably most of the games we have left. Including the first one against Boston. And the second one if we haven’t clinched the division.”
He told me he was sure Claude Rancourt’s career was over and said I was their guy for the rest of the season “and I hope many seasons to come. We have a good chance at the Cup, Jean Pierre. And, believe me, in Montreal winning the division or the conference means nothing. This team is measured by how many Cups we win. I think it’s like playing for the New York Yankees. But it has been a long time for us. Much too long.”
The Canadiens last won the Cup in 1993 when they had the great Patrick Roy in goal. The club’s twenty-four championships is an NHL record, but, as Picard said, “We won most of those in a six-team or twelve-team league. Now there are thirty teams. Much harder. And I’ll warn you, the media coverage of us is like nothing you’ve ever seen. We’ve scheduled a press conference for you tomorrow morning at ten. Before practice. Get it over with, eh?”
I told Picard I didn’t mind talking to the media.
We talked for a few more minutes, then Picard got up to walk me to the elevator. As I turned toward the door I saw what I think is the most revealing hockey photograph ever taken, even more dramatic than the Bobby Orr picture. The old black-and-white photo hanging on Jean Picard’s office wall was taken April 8, 1952, in the Montreal Forum after the Canadiens eliminated Boston in the seventh game of a Stanley Cup semifinal. The picture shows Boston goalie Sugar Jim Henry, his right eye blackened and nose broken, bowing slightly as he s
hakes hands with the Canadiens Rocket Richard, who has blood streaming down his cheek onto his game shirt from the sloppily bandaged cut above his left eye. Richard suffered a concussion in the first period of that game. The team doctor stitched the cut but could do nothing about the concussion that kept Richard lying on the trainer’s table until the game was almost over. Late in the third period with the score tied 1–1 Richard returned to the Montreal bench, where he asked teammate Elmer Lach the score because Richard couldn’t focus his eyes on the scoreboard. With three and a half minutes to play, Richard jumped onto the ice on a line change, took a pass from defenseman Butch Bouchard, outskated two Boston back-checkers, beat both defensemen, and sent an ankle-high shot past Jim Henry. That goal won the game and clinched the series. Minutes after the photographer caught the battered Richard and Henry shaking hands, Richard went to the Canadiens dressing room, and—just as Richard’s father entered the room to congratulate his son—the Rocket began sobbing uncontrollably, went into convulsions, and had to be sedated.
“He was on fire all the time, the Rocket,” Picard said when he saw me staring at the photo that captures the dignity, chivalry, violence, and bravura of our game as does no other.
“Makes me proud to be a hockey player,” I said.
Picard ushered me through the door and past two secretaries who could have been podium finishers in a Charlize Theron look-alike contest.
“Oh, one more thing. You can’t have jersey number one. It was Jacques Plante’s number. We retired it.”
I asked Picard for number 31. Faith McNeil’s number.
* * *
I got back to the hotel to receive a blizzard of phone calls, most from my ex-teammates.
Taki Yamamura relayed a message from Su. “She says skip the Montreal Ballet. They bump into each other.”
Bruno Govoni said: “Christ, JP. Some guys have all the luck. Montreal. Strip Club City. There’s clubs there that have more stages than Wells Fargo and more poles than Warsaw.”
Flipside called to say he was burning me a “Jean Pierre Savard Trade-to-Montreal” theme album. He was pretty sure Ray Charles’s “Hit the Road, Jack,” Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Don’t Come Around Here No More,” Steam’s “Nah Nah Hey Hey Goodbye,” the Beatles’ “Ticket to Ride,” and the Alkaline Trio’s “Fuck You Aurora” will be on it. “It’ll be sort of a sentimental thing, probably make you cry,” Flipper said.
“Let’s go out to dinner and I’ll tell you about hockey in Montreal,” I said to Faith.
“I hear it’s like soccer in Brazil.”
“Bigger than that.”
The phone rang again just as we were leaving. Faith answered it and I’m sure was ready to tell the caller I wasn’t in. But the caller was Marco Indinacci and Faith knew I’d want to talk to my old college coach.
“Jeez, JP, I’m sorry about the trade. Hattigan’s got to be crazy. No one trades a goaltender to a division rival.”
“Hockey is still most goals wins, Marco. Boston was desperate to replace Taki. Montreal was desperate for a goalie. It’s business.”
“Well if you ever get tired of being in a business where you get jerked around, I’ve got an option for you. I’m retiring after next season. Twenty-five years. It’s enough. I’m looking to hire an associate coach who’ll step up to head coach when I leave. You’ve got first refusal.”
“Thanks, Marco. I appreciate your thinking of me, but I couldn’t step down to that kind of money. I mean—”
A suddenly angry Marco Indinacci cut me off. “Step DOWN? Did you say DOWN? Hey, ace, I didn’t know big-shot NHLers were spending their time working with kids. I guess you must be busy curing cancer and straightening out the Middle East on your off days, eh?”
“I’m sorry, Marco,” I said, embarrassed at the insulting implication of what I’d said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I apologize. I know what you did for me, and for a lot of other guys. All I meant was that a couple or three more years in the Show and I can do anything I want.”
“And what’s that, ace?”
“I don’t know, Marco. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”
“Well, I just thought if you came here I’d get an assistant, a successor, and a goalie coach all in one package. And let me tell ya, Rudy Evanston needs a goalie coach. His last six games were brutal. He’s staying with us as a fifth-year senior next season, and frankly, it’s because no pro team wants him.”
“I appreciate your thinking of me, Coach. Really. Maybe if it were three years from now I’d jump at it. My girlfriend’s a doctor. She’ll be doing her internship at Lake Champlain Med Center.”
“I know. Cam told me. That’s why I thought I’d have a chance. Guess I didn’t factor in the step-down angle. Wouldn’t want an NHLer slumming it, ace.”
I apologized again. I’d really stung the guy. And I’d violated one of my mother’s rules of good manners: “A lady or gentleman never hurts anyone by accident.”
“Well, good luck up there, JP. Hope it works out for you.”
“Thanks again, Marco. Nice of you to call. I’ve been a little mixed up for the last couple of days,” I said, but by then Indinacci had hung up.
* * *
We took a cab to Les Remparts in the predominantly French east side of the city. At dinner Faith asked me if I’d be distracted knowing my father was going to be at the games.
“I can block out anything once they drop the puck. I’ll shut down my heart if I have to.”
“You really hate him, don’t you?”
“With good reason.”
“No doubt about that. Do you think you’ll ever let it go? I mean what he did. Or in your case didn’t do?”
“No. I can’t.”
“You can. But you choose not to,” Faith said.
I didn’t have an answer for that. For the rest of the meal we talked about the logistics of my move to Montreal, of Faith’s move to Burlington, of cars, insurance, the sale of our homes, and all the little things that can suck the life out of a love affair.
* * *
The press conference was easier than I’d expected. I had a little fun with a young reporter from La Presse Canadienne. The kid asked if my goaltending style was butterfly or stand-up. “It’s a combination. I call it the butter-up,” I said. There were a few snickers throughout the room. But, sure enough, my so-called butter-up style appeared in several of the next day’s papers.
* * *
Practice was short and up-tempo with a lot of skating and puck movement and a few hundred shots for me. I felt good playing goal again, feeling the dull thud of pucks off of my leg pads, the thwack as they hit the broad blade of my stick, and the sharp tug as it disappeared into the webbing of my glove. Being in goal gave me a sense of control. Even the sweat and fatigue felt good. And there were no headhunters on the Canadiens. Nobody blasting close-in shots up high the way Rex Conway would sometimes do in Boston. Or at least the way he did until a few years ago when he hit me on the side of the helmet when I wasn’t even looking. I threw my goal stick at his head and chased him around the rink. I’ve heard of goalies getting in fights with headhunters. When a reporter for the Hockey News asked me what I’d do if I were NHL commissioner for a day I said that any idiot who goes head hunting in practice should have to play goal for fifteen minutes.
Tim Harcourt told me that Picard gradually reduced the length of practice as the season wore on. “We come here, skate hard for maybe forty-five minutes, and we’re done. This is a good place to play. As long as we win,” he said. Tim also told me that the buzz among Montreal players and front-office people was that Madison Hattigan’s job with the Bruins was on the line. Few GMs ever make a major trade within their own division, because that GM is toast if the guy he traded comes back to beat him. “If we beat Boston in the playoffs Hattigan is archives,” Tim said.
Tim and a couple of other players invited me to lunch after practice but I told them I had to do some shopping for Faith.
“You
r wife?” Tim said.
“Girlfriend,” I said.
“Plenty of those in Montreal,” he said. “No need to import.”
* * *
Arriving at the hotel, I ducked into one of those expensive boutiques on the first floor, made a purchase, then took the elevator to my room.
I gave Faith the diamond ring a few hours later during dinner at Les Halles on Crescent Street. “This is for you, whether we get married or not,” I said. “But I hope we do.”
“Jean Pierre Lucien Savard, that’s an odd way of asking me to marry you.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Faith was never one for gushy scenes but when she slipped the ring on her finger she spontaneously held it up to the view of the young couple dining at the table next to ours. I guess they’d had a few drinks, because they immediately raised their wineglasses to us, and the woman, laughing, took Faith’s hand and held it up for the entire restaurant to see. This set off a sudden joyful commotion as other diners broke into applause and toasts. A smiling Faith was the center of attention until a man at a nearby table recognized me. “Hey, J. P. Savard. Bienvenue au Montreal,” he said, pointing to me and setting off another round of cheering. The maître d’ sent a split of champagne to our table. “To love and hockey,” I said, clinking my glass against Faith’s.
“Love I understand,” Faith said, setting her glass on the table. “But hockey?”
“The game brings people together,” I said. “Very important.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone is lonely.”
* * *
Back at the hotel we slipped into those white Turkish towel robes with the Fairmont Hotels logo. I don’t know what it is about those robes—maybe the easy access they offer—but it wasn’t long before we were making love as we had on that autumn Sunday at Faith’s house so many months ago.
The digital clock read 2:11 a.m. when I woke up. Faith was asleep on her stomach. I starting rubbing the small of her back as I felt my need for her rising again.
“Ernie Banks,” Faith murmurred out of a half sleep.
