Patrick Roy retired from hockey today.
If you're not a hockey fan you might not have any idea who Patrick
Roy is.
If you're French Canadian, chances are you are a hockey fan. If you
grew up in or anywhere near the province of Quebec Patrick Roy's name
probably has a resonance for you that you could only explain to the
denizens of ancient world's where names like Heracles, Gilgamesh and
Alexander echo as much the skies as they do the earth. Hockey here is
as much religion as it is sport and the man they call Saint Patrick
has earned a reverence that belongs to a handful of men who have gone
beyond the heroic and become myth.
I learned from my french Canadian mother to deny my frenchness. She
forbade us to speak french, scolded us for showing any french
mannerisms or accent and swore to anyone who would listen that her
ancestors were Irish and not french. A french Canadian accent where
we grew up was the equivalent of a deep southern Alabama accent in
the U.S.. It was heard as an announcement that you were dirt poor,
the lowest of the low. Being french Canadian was something that you
felt like you had to apologize for. Even today those feeling linger
so much that I am often the first to make the french joke and if
someone asks me about my heritage I tell them that I am Mohawk first
and french only a distant and apologetic second.
So I fought for my right to be Mohawk. I hid from my right to be
french.
Because being french Canadian at that time in that place was not
something to be proud of.
Except when it came to hockey.
Because hockey was the one thing that French Canadians were the very
best at.
At that time the Montreal Canadiens were simply the best team in all
of professional sport. They had won the Stanley Cup, had dominated
their sport more than the Yankees, the Celtics, more than any other
team in the history of professional sport. And the Habs, Les
Habitants, were predominantly a French Canadian team. Their heroes,
our heroes were The Rocket, Maurice Richard, with his fierce coal
black eyes, The Man Behind The Mask, Jacques Plante, knitting toques
and stopping pucks with the same quiet calm, Le Grand Bill, Jean
Beliveau, tall and handsome and elegantly perfect, and Le Petit
Fleur, Guy Lafleur, more beautiful to watch in full flight than
anything I've ever seen.
They were all, all of them French. And they were better at what they
did than anybody else.
And there was Saint Patrick, Patrick Roy. This skinny, gawky arrogant
kid who seemed to appear out of nowhere in 1986 to lead an otherwise
mediocre Canadiens team to the Stanley Cup. Like The Rocket he was
defiant and unapologetically French. Barely able to speak English
when he came into the league he made his point clear to his opponents
by winding merrily at them after he made stop after impossible stop.
And he carried Les Habitants on his skinny back to their second and
perhaps final Stanley Cup, shutting opposing teams down so completely
that even that crumbling franchise couldn't help but win.
When the Canadiens forgot to treasure their greatest star his
defiance turned on them. He left. And the team he left sank down to
become no better than average without him.
Saint Patrick then became the core, on a team that had also left
Quebec behind, around which a Dynasty was built in Colorado.
Some were disappointed, some were angry. But Saint Patrick was still
unmistakably French Canadian. He still lived for the most part in
Quebec. His wife was French. His children were French. He passed up
Olympic glory to watch his oldest son play goal in the Quebec league.
And Roy was still the very best, perhaps the best who ever lived at
what he did. He led Colorado to two more Stanley Cups and won more
victories than any other goaltender in NHL history.
It was hard not to still feel proud.
Because Patrick Roy, like Richard and Plante, Beliveau and Lafleur
had risen beyond the status of mere hero. He had become a myth.
And today, with his children in the audience and his wife beside him
Saint Patrick said goodbye to playing hockey.
Once again there is disappointment to see him go. But when see the
way his eyes light up when he looks at his children, how easy and
comfortable this often troubled athlete is with his family I realize
that perhaps it is time for the man to be just a man.
To hockey fans Patrick Roy is the man who changed hockey forever, who
raised the goaltender's role from that of mere backstop to the very
foundation around which a team is built. He did for goalies what
Bobby Orr and Wayne Gretzky did for everyone else. He made creativity
and leadership essential parts of the net minder's game. He has
become the touchstone against which all other goaltenders will be
measured.
It seems like no accident that Patrick Roy chooses to retire at a
time when two French Canadian goalies who modeled themselves after
him, who were inspired by his mighty achievements, are the central
figures in the final battle for the Stanley Cup. Now, more than ever
the contest seems to have become a question of who will be Saint
Patrick's successor.
To a kid who grew up feeling ashamed to be French Canadian Patrick
Roy is so much more than just a man, so much more than just a great
hockey player.
He is perhaps the last of his kind.
He is that tingle of excitement, that rush of pride, that breathless
awe that makes life even if for the briefest moments, glorious.
Patrick Roy the man has given in to his arthritic hips and the love
of family to leave the legend behind.
But Saint Patrick the Myth will be inspiring greatness and will be
the source of mythic story telling for generations to come.
And for me his name, his memory still fills me with excitement and
pride.
To be a hockey fan.
To be Canadian.
And yes, even to be French Canadian.