Where Hockey is Religion

In Montreal, hockey was a Saturday night ritual. During the waning days of black and white television, families and friends would gather in living rooms to cheer on the Montreal Canadiens.

This was a team you could — or perhaps needed to — believe in.

Yes, there are the New York Islanders and their four Stanley Cups. There are the Rangers. Every city has their team.

But in Quebec — in a world where French Canadiens often felt demeaned by the “English” — once a year around April, “Les Glorieux” (The Glorious) would take to the ice and dominate the other five teams.

It was even sweeter when they would crush the Toronto Maple Leafs — the despised team of English Canada.

Yesterday, in a Catholic church in Louiseville, Quebec, I sat with the remnants of those glorious years: Serge Savard and Rejean Houle, among others.

Growing up in Montreal, my favorite hockey player was Bobby Rousseau, who passed away earlier this week. I was the only outsider among the gathering of his family, friends and former teammates.

In 1962, Bobby Rousseau was named Rookie of the Year. He later scored five goals in one game. And when he was awarded a penalty shot in his rookie year, rather than deke out the goalie, he took a wild slapshot and scored.

That goal, however unorthodox, has served as a perpetual personal reminder of how sometimes you must stop passing — and just shoot.

In Quebec, hockey is an attitude. If you have something to say or a score to settle, you take care of it on the ice rather flopping to the turf.

Even today, on game day, fans parade through the city in their red home jerseys. Some stand outside apartments, waving banners, waiting for players to drive out of the garage.

It’s a matter of national pride, which remains with you even after you leave Quebec.

My childhood connection with Bobby Rousseau was rekindled a few years ago when, at an Islanders game dressed in my Number 15 Canadiens jersey, I was tapped on the shoulder by three young guys, challenging me about the jersey.

As it turned out, two were Rousseau’s grandsons. And within minutes, I was on Facetime, staring into the eyes of my idol, who invited me for a game of golf the next time I was in Louiseville, (about 90 minutes east of Montreal).

A year later, there I was on his golf course, spending the late afternoon nursing a beer, talking about the old days.

Bobby was patient. He was kind. And he was extremely generous as he assessed my golf game.

As he walked me to the car, the player who signed his original contract for a $7,000 bonus, turned to me and said, “Thank you for coming. I hope to see again in Louiseville.”

The story of the Long Island jersey came up yesterday in grandson’s eulogy. It was a story of how Bobby had lifelong fans, who still remember his hard work and passion.

This week, I happened to be in Montreal with a rabbinical colleague raised un Philadelphia attending a Canadiens/Flyers game when I received a text from Rousseau’s son, Richard, inviting me to the funeral.

It was beshert.

Over the past few years, as both of us experienced our parents fading with dementia, Richard Rousseau and I became friends. Every few months we exchanged emails, wishing each other’s parents well.

And last year, I was honored when he hosted me at a Canadiens game, as we spent intermissions in the alumni lounge.

Yesterday, as I entered the funeral home, surrounded by Bobby’s awards, a replica of the Stanley Cup and his Canadiens and Rangers jerseys, I was profoundly moved by the warm welcome from those who were there to celebrate his life.

We stood together to honor not only a great hockey player, but also a husband, father, brother, grandfather, boss, golf pro, teammate and friend.

Kind. Optimistic. Cheerful. Generous.

And it caused me to reflect about the potential for each of us – in our own way — to be a role model.

For during the 1960s and 1970s, amidst the political turmoil that often-divided Quebecers, there was one thing upon which we could agree:

The Montreal Canadiens were glorious — an inspiration of how the forgotten could rise to glory on the backs of Maurice Richard, Jean Beliveau, Guy Lafleur and Bobby Rousseau.

Bobby was more than a childhood hero. As I advanced in my adulthood, he remained an example of how even after our glory days, we can continue to inspire.

For Bobby Rousseau’s star never faded from the time he left the ice to his final moments.

Bobby was never named to the Hall of Fame. But for those of us who knew him, he was legendary — a player who stands out today in contrast to the self-centered political, sports and entertainment personalities who dominate the headlines.

On this sixth night of Chanukah, let us consider who the lights of our lives have been, and how we can be the shamash to others.

Goodbye, Bobby. Thank you for being that light.

Thank you for being there throughout the years.

Thank you for being the role model I always hoped you would be.

Chag Sameach. Shabbat Shalom.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman