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Horatio, Saku and George
Le Puck:
Street Hockey, Montréal Can-Can Style
by
Grant Boyd, Jr.
We were wandering around Vieux-Montreal in the
sun last Friday afternoon and I notice a silver-haired fellow with a hockey stick,
shooting a puck at the wrought iron fence around the base of the Horatio Nelson
monument at one end of Place Jacques-Cartier. Oldest monument in Montreal. Stands
about 50 feet high and has Nelson facing away from the St. Lawrence River, looking
toward the mountain. Odd orientation for a marine hero. Although, he apparently
suffered terribly from seasickness throughout his life. Maybe it was to spare
him from having to gaze out over the source of his queasiness, for all time.
Horatio
has the sun at his back this lovely afternoon and as the cardboard sign on the
fence informs me – "G.R. Roberge" at his feet, working on his wrist
shot. The sign boasts that G.R., at the age of sixty-four, broke not one, but
two pucks in half with his shot. And that he’s challenged Saku Koivu, the Canadiens’
captain to a shoot-out. George (Robert), as I come to learn – has a medium-sized
tin can dangling from a black bungee cord, hooked to the fence. The can would
be about three feet off the ground – or about forty-seven feet below Nelson’s
gaze.
The deal is, as the cardboard sign explains in both French
and English – "If I am able to hit the can, maybe you could put whatever
you can – in the can."
I’ve seen a lot of street hustles,
but this endeavour is something else. Combining as it does our unofficial national
religion – hockey, with an historical setting and elements of skill, chance, charity
and the satisfying sound of rubber ricocheting off of tin. This is inspired, true
blue north street theatre.
I ask George what he likes in his
coffee. "Black? Double-double?"
George: "Deux
et trois… two cream, three sugars."
At the Tim’s, I
wonder aloud what George might like food-wise. The server isn’t familiar with
his preferences. "Really? He works just down the street from you." I
settle on the chocolate-glazed Boston Cream doughnut, simply because it looks
like a puck.
I hand him his coffee and Boston Cream and put
my coffee and doughnut in the basket on his well-traveled bike. "Take your
stick for ya’?"
Me: "Mind if I take a couple of shots?"
George
gives up the stick – reluctantly. This is the tool of his trade, no less than
a painter’s brush – a sculptor’s chisel. I can appreciate his apprehension. I
stick handle the puck back and forth – it seems to provide him some ease. He tucks
into his Boston cream.
George: "You’ve played hockey."
Me:
"Oh yeah."
George: "No slap shots."
Me:
"No percentage George. Inaccurate."
The puck’s edges
are worn down to a bevelled smoothness, from hitting the cement base of the monument.
I take a closer look at the stick. A Titan, with a half dozen holes of varying
sizes drilled through the blade. And on the bottom of the blade are the burnished
heads of finishing nails in the fibreglass.
Me: "What’s
with the holes George – better aerodynamics?"
George:
"Oui – some days the wind off the river is so strong, it catches the blade
and spoils my shot."
Me: "And the finishing nails
on the bottom ?"
George: "Without them, I would wear
a stick out in a week."
Me: "How many sticks do you
go through in a year?"
George: "Cinq."
Me:
"And pucks?"
George: "Four or five."
Me:
"What’s your best run George?"
George: "Ten
in a row. Non – nine and a half. One was a ricochet."
Me:
"Ten? No wonder Koivu hasn’t taken you up on your challenge. Ever put a puck
in the can?"
George: "Oui, when the puck deflected
up, it dropped back down into the can."
Me: "Like
a hole in one, huh?"
George: "Two times."
I’ve
been stick handling in and around tourists shooting the puck – high, wide, low
and one off the fence that creases the can. "That count as half a hit, George?"
Me:
"George, is that a Habitant soup can? I really like Habitant Chicken Noodle
soup. I don’t think I can bring myself to deface one of their cans."
George
laughs.
A puck ricochets straight up off a fence rail – high
up toward the stone alligator, with its mouth open, part way up the column.
Me:
"How many of your pucks has that alligator eaten George?"
The
next shot rings satisfyingly off the can. "Yayy!!" I raise my arms in
the air in celebration and do a running leapfrog jump over a baluster in front
of the monument.
Me: "George, what if you put some marbles,
or washers in the can, so that a hit would make the can really ring out?"
George:
"But the things would fall out when the can flipped over."
Me:
"You could fix a fine mesh screen to the top and put a slit in it, for
donations."
George:
"Hey, this is my show. You want to do that – get your own show."
My
turn to laugh. "Fair enough."
Me: "How often
are you here George?"
George: "Almost every day."
He
looks it – his face is tanned as you’re apt to see on anyone at this time of year,
who hasn’t traveled south, or to a tanning salon. George checks his watch, almost
3:00 PM – quittin’ time. He has a pretty good pedal home to Rosemont, ahead of
him. He drains his coffee – I try his trick of scooping the puck onto the blade
of the stick, to flip him his puck. No luck. He shows me the point on the tip
of the blade that he’s sanded down and which allows him to get under the puck.
I try again. Got it. I flip the puck high into the air and catch it.
"Hey
George, if you win the truck when you roll up your rim, you gotta’ promise to
chauffeur me and my partner-in-crime around Montreal, whenever we’re visiting."
George:
"Me, I don’t need a truck. I drive my bicycle for 10 years. It’s good exercise
and keeps me healthy."
Certainly the case, by the looks
of him.
Me: "Yeah, a vehicle is almost as expensive as
being married," I joke. (I’ve introduced George to la co-presidente, Sheena,
who’s joined us. And told him that we’re visiting Montreal to celebrate our wedding
anniversary – "trente et un ans." He shakes our hands and congratulates
us.)
George’s coffee cup rim is the story of his honourable
calling, shooting the puck – "Please try again."
I’m
a bit luckier. "George, I’ve got a winner. A biscuit – with your name on
it."
I show him the anomaly about the kids in the pond
hockey scene on our $5 bill. I give him the five. "It’s a sure bet, you’ll
never have to buy
another beer at the tavern."
George:
"You know the best thing about doing this? It’s not just the
money."
Me:
"The kids?"
George: "Oui – when they watch and
I hit the can with a well-aimed shot, their eyes light up."
Me:
"George, have you ever considered taking on an apprentice?"
By:
Grant Boyd, Jr. Assist, #9 — George ROBERGE!!
Shoots: Left (Not nearly as
accurately as George)
Lives: In Val-Des-Monts, Québec and works on his
wrist shot in Montréal, whenever he gets a chance
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