’Twas the night before game day, inside the Bell Centre,
Not a skate blade was moving, no rivals to enter.
The jerseys were hung by the lockers with care,
In hopes that Lord Stanley soon would be there.
❄️
The players were sprawled in their bunks on the road,
Dreaming of slapshots and breakaways owed.
And St-Louis in his hoodie, clipboard at his side,
Reviewed their next matchup with an old-school pride.
❄️
When out on the ice there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from his office to see what was the matter.
Through tunnels he hurried, his pace like a dash,
Pulled open the bench gate—then heard a loud SMASH!
❄️
The rink lights were glowing, fresh ice shining bright,
With shadows of banners that hung from great height.
And there at the blue line, with a confident grin,
Stood a figure in red, white and blue, as if ready to win.
❄️
He looked like a coach but with a mythic twist,
A toque on his head, a tape roll in his fist.
With sticks on his shoulder and a satchel in tow,
He called out to players whose legends we know:
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“On Béliveau! On Lafleur! On Rocket and Plante!
Rise up from the banners and give us your want!
To the net-front battles! To breakouts with speed!
Show these young Habs the grit that they need!“
❄️
From the rafters they soared, old ghosts of our past,
Skating like legends—so fluid, so fast.
Their echoes grew louder, a sound so familiar,
The cheers of the Forum, where victories shimmered.
❄️
Then standing before St-Louis, this coach gave a look,
His eyes sharp as iron, a page from our book.
“Coach Marty,” he said, “these kids have the spark,
But to light the fire, they must play with heart.
❄️
Teach Suzuki to lead like the captains of old,
Let Caufield snipe goals that are pure hockey gold.
Guide Slaf with his strength to win battles and thrive,
And make every Hab proud of this team that’s alive.
❄️
Guhle and Dach? Stay steady, stay true.
Monty? Your saves will keep dreams burning through.
For this is Le Club, this is Montreal’s creed,
A torch passed through ages—that’s all they will need.”
❄️
He turned toward the glass, gave his whistle a blow,
And legends behind him began to let go.
They skated to shadows, fading from view,
But their words stayed behind like a coach’s review.
❄️
Then Saint Toe Blake turned back, with a wink and a nod,
And pointed up high to the rafters abroad.
“Remind them,” he said, “as they lace up tonight,
They carry a legacy, a spark to ignite.”
❄️
He sprang to the Zamboni, gave one final wave,
A silhouette framed by the banners we save.
But I heard him exclaim, as he disappeared from sight,
“Play hard for the crest, and bring glory tonight!”
❄️
