A Montreal Canadiens adaptation of a Christmas Classic…
The Spirits of the Montreal Forum
It was the eve before Christmas in Montreal, and Geoff Molson, owner and President of the Montreal Canadiens, sat alone in his grand office at the Bell Centre. The halls were empty, save for faint echoes of fans long past. Snow fell gently outside, but inside, a storm of frustration churned. For yet another season, the team struggled, mired in rebuilding, and the once-glorious club seemed a shadow of its former self.
As Geoff sipped from a glass of fine Molson brew, he sighed deeply. “It’s all for nothing,” he muttered. “The fans grow impatient, the banners gather dust, and the ghosts of the Forum laugh at me. Hockey is business now—nothing more.”
But as midnight struck, the room grew icy cold. The air rippled like a rising mist, and before him appeared a figure, shimmering like the northern lights. It was none other than Le Rocket himself—Maurice Richard. His gaze was fierce yet compassionate, his eyes burning with the fire of the Forum days.
“Geoff,” boomed Richard’s voice. “Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits. They will show you what was, what is, and what could be. Without them, this franchise’s soul will remain as empty as the rafters of an arena without glory.”
Before Geoff could respond, the Rocket vanished, leaving only the faint smell of sweat-soaked leather gloves and sharpened skates.
Ghost of Canadiens Past
The room dimmed again, and as Geoff turned, another towering figure emerged: Jean Béliveau, his silhouette as regal as ever. Dressed in his #4 sweater, Béliveau extended a hand.
“Come, Geoff,” he said softly, “let me show you what you have forgotten.”
With a blink, Geoff was no longer in his office but standing in the raucous Montreal Forum of old. The seats vibrated with chants of “Go Habs Go,” and the air hummed with magic. The Rocket streaked across the ice, scoring with precision; Doug Harvey controlled the blue line like an artist; Ken Dryden stood tall in net, unshakable.
“Look at them,” Béliveau said, his voice filled with pride. “Champions in heart, soul, and work ethic. Do you feel it, Geoff? Do you remember what it means to lead a dynasty, not just a team?”
Geoff watched as fans cheered until they were hoarse, legends raised Cups high, and pride reigned over the city.
“But those days are gone,” Geoff muttered.
Béliveau’s smile faded. “Only because you let them be.”
The scene melted like ice beneath warm skates, and Geoff was alone again.
The Ghost of Canadiens Present
The second spirit was a familiar one. A man in goalie pads and a defiant #33 jersey skated into the room—Patrick Roy. He towered over Geoff with the same intensity that once defined his game.
“Ah, Geoff,” Roy sneered, arms crossed. “Since I left, you’ve been cursed, haven’t you?”
Geoff recoiled. “You abandoned us—I didn’t trade you myself!”
Roy raised a glove. “Excuses! Look here, Monsieur Molson. Come.”
The Bell Centre appeared before them. The empty seats told a sad tale; even the passionate faithful seemed resigned. On the ice, Martin St-Louis, small but determined like a modern-day Tiny Tim, hollered encouragement to his young players, skating hard but faltering. Cole Caufield and Nick Suzuki fought valiantly to restore hope, but frustration painted their faces.
“The effort is there,” Roy said. “The heart beats in these boys, but you’ve left them to wander. A coach can only do so much. Where is the help, Geoff? Where is the vision?”
Staring at the broken plays, Geoff felt a twinge of guilt. Martin St-Louis’ voice cut through the silence:
“God bless us, every one.”
Roy turned to Geoff. “What will it take? Pride? Leadership? Accountability? Fix it, before the curse consumes you entirely.”
The lights dimmed, and Patrick Roy faded like a ghostly whistle blown into the void.
The Ghost of Canadiens Yet to Come
The final figure entered without sound. A young man, clad in a crisp, untarnished Canadiens sweater, skated forward: Ivan Demidov, the team’s top prospect and beacon of hope. He said nothing, but his presence spoke volumes—potential, promise, the future.
Demidov extended a stick, and Geoff saw a vision of what could be. The Bell Centre was alive again, a sea of red roaring as banners rose to join the greats. Suzuki lifted the Cup with Demidov beside him, while St-Louis beamed with pride on the bench. The ghosts of the past smiled from the shadows, satisfied that their legacy had been reclaimed.
The vision shifted: a dark, empty arena, where silence replaced cheers and fans were nowhere to be found.
Demidov finally spoke. “Which future will you choose?”
A New Dawn
Geoff awoke with a start, his office bathed in soft morning light. The weight in his chest lifted as he whispered to himself:
“It’s not too late.”
He burst into the halls of the Bell Centre, calling for his staff. “We rebuild with pride! No more half-measures. No more curses. Martin—you will have the tools you need. The fans deserve it. The ghosts demand it.”
And so it was. The Canadiens began anew, with a clear vision, a rekindled spirit, and a promise to honour their history while building their future.
And every Christmas Eve, Martin St-Louis would raise a glass to his players and quietly say:
“God bless us, every one.”
