If you listen closely you will hear it, the sound of the song as though many Habs hearts beat as one. In the midst of that song are all our hopes and wishes, our fears and doubts, and often we are all singing the same refrain. Once the song being sung was the eye of the tiger, win at all costs, “from failing hands we pass the torch!”

But no more.

For the last few years, it sounds a bit more like “Breaking up is hard to do.” I hear many a fan resisting the temptation to put a nail in the coffin, to lower expectations before the season begins, so they feel like progression is happening. Some say it is defeatist. Some will say it is maturity. Maturity is the luxury of the old, and not the purview of the young. There are lots of players on the Habs who believe they can win, and I feel they can too. They have the best young core since 1993.But part of me can’t help hearing the slam of hammer on nail – and it is a sound all too familiar and far too real. It is as damning as the beating of the tell-tale heart, a merciless pounding with roots deep in 20 years of disappointment, straw grasping, and saviour worship. Like when you order something at a resto. and it’s not what you wanted, and you eat it anyways.

It does lower one’s expectations, doesn’t it?

In the midst of great progression, a clearly identifiable change in culture, and with leadership who believes in living with the club rather than remain aloof from its members, it is a strange moment to be a Habs fan. We don’t like to be teased. And so we are all confronted with a very painful truth: We no longer expect to win.

40 years ago the Stanley Cup practically lived on the corner of Atwater and St. Catherine’s. Now our expectation is (please raise your hands when this sounds familiar) the hockey season starts, the Habs hope to sneak into the playoffs, they make an early exit, and then we all fondly reminisce about 1976.

Oh for the Jaroslav Halak years...

Breaking up is hard to do.

For 17 years now I’ve lived in my beloved Montreal, my adopted home. The home to my francophone son, the home of smoked meat and steamies, of micro-brew and cheap chinese eats, enduring heartbreak after futile heartbreak living and dying with Les Glorieux. Watching Saku Koivu’s struggles with Cancer or the year we should have been in the finals before Justin Williams nearly KILLED him with a stick in the eye (mais il mange comme un champion, et un jour il sera un champion mutters Gainey’s ghost). Richard Zednik and Max Pacioretty nearly getting killed on the ice by Bruins defenseman too dishonest and disrespectful to admit they were beat. The french media gong show. Mike Komisaruk.

Sheldon Souray...

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