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330 Days Later:
Reunion in Kanata

posted February 22, 2001

Here I am, an American tourist sitting in the 300 level of the Corel Centre, watching the away team take to the bench. The away team is the Montreal Canadiens. I traveled 800 miles to see this: Not the players in bleu, blanc et rouge, but the raven-haired man in the headset who stands behind them. Assistant Coach Guy Carbonneau.

It’s been 330 days.

As I have previously written, in 2000 I had the amazing privilege of speaking with Guy on three successive days in Dallas. We said farewell on March 25th at Cowboy’s Café, the afternoon before the last game I saw him play in person. "Goodbye, Guy," I told him, "we’ll be watching you tomorrow from above." "Thanks, Diane," he said. And I left the restaurant knowing full well I might never speak to the man again.

Who knew what the next months would hold...whether Guy would retire, and if he did, what new course his life would take? I had made the irreversible mistake of throwing in my lot with a man in the twilight of his skating career—he was nearly 38 when I discovered him—and the price was about to be paid.

The day I found out from Denis Carbonneau that his brother was finished on the ice was truly a black one. But of course, I had already learned the lesson, "It’s always darkest before the dawn." In the weeks to come I tried—and, I admit, largely failed—to keep that faith.

All Guy’s fans went through the same grief that I did. And then we heard the news that the Canadiens had hired Carbo as their Director of Youth Development. Not the most visible position possible, but Guy’s reunion with the team that was his first and best love was joyous news to me. He was back in hockey—all was right with the world.

But happier news was yet to come.

Back in Dallas I had audaciously told M. Carbonneau I was convinced he should become a coach. But if you have seen him in a game, analyzing the play on the bench to anyone who will listen, how could you not agree? If you have read of his leadership, taking rookies under his wing, inspiring the team in the room, always wise, strong, steady and sure—how could you not hope this would be his destiny? However, at the time of our conversation, Guy said no, coaching just didn’t appeal—at least for now.

But the struggling Canadiens needed coaching, whether Carbonneau aspired to it or not. When he was 20 they needed a defensive forward, so he gave up being a goal scorer. And now that he was 40 they needed a coach, so there it was. At three in the morning on November 20 he was awakened by a phone call, and he said yes.

That night in Montreal much wine was drunk chez Carbonneau, in celebration of this event which once seemed impossible. In Hales Corners, Wisconsin, the toasts were likewise poured chez Lau. I raised my glass to Coach Carbonneau, and absolutely felt like I was dreaming.

Ninety days later, it still feels like a dream. I am in Kanata, Ontario, and across the ice, Carbo is coaching.

Just how imposing can an assistant coach be? I am probably not the person to ask. I’m the one who used to say that if I had to take a faceoff against him, I would surrender before the puck was dropped. To me Carbonneau looks just as I knew he would: competent, steady, focused. He is perfectly suited to this, not merely in demeanor, but in the mind and character behind that demeanor. He looks damn good.

As the game gets underway, Guy performs his duties. During a stoppage I watch him lean down over Johan Witehall, explaining the play, his hand extended and gesturing to illustrate his words. I’ve seen this before, in Dallas and Chicago. I’ve seen it before, coming from a man wearing a sweater and a helmet, and I pictured an eventual scene like the one before my eyes. It’s surreal.

Guy studies the play as it unfolds before him, taking notes which I would love to read. Later, he speaks at length with Saku Koivu. Ah, I think...the reward of a long hard career: Is there any team captain, any star player, who wouldn’t defer now to the accumulated wisdom of Carbonneau? That’s as it should be.

Then I am reminded again of his fallibility. In Chicago I saw him fan on a shot in warmups...now I watch him drop his pen. A couple of players have to stand in order for it to be recovered. Certainly a fanned shot is a more glorious error than a dropped pen, but I find this little event has the same effect on me, and I smile.

And some things haven’t changed a bit. When slashing is called on Chad Kilger, Guy is not pleased. You can see that same look on your old game tapes, you can even see it in the computer generated Carbo which appears in NHL 2000. Consternation, the shrug of dismay, and that ironic smile which even across an arena says, "Yeah, right—you’re full of sh— . " I chuckle with unabashed glee at the sight. It’s like he never left.

On the other hand, other things are irrevocably different. My Peter Pan has had his wings clipped, he is not allowed over the boards anymore. I know he could if he wanted to...just a week earlier he acquitted himself nicely in a scrimmage with the team...but he has acquiesced to the passage of time just as he has to the needs of the Canadiens, and stands content in his suit and tie.

But so little time has passed, it’s as if I can see him in both roles at once. It’s as if he still sits, holding his stick, watching the flow on the ice, yelling at his teammates, with that alert and focused expression we watched for years, waiting for his next shift. And at the same time, there he stands, a dark figure with arms folded, watching with precisely the same face, and now all the shifts are equally his.

In the third period I watch him diagram a play for Oleg Petrov. It reminds me of something...yes, it’s the scene in the Ken Dryden-narrated video, "Home Game." A 28-year-old Guy listened as his captain, Bob Gainey, explained a faulty play to him between periods. Older to younger passed on the wisdom of hockey...and now it continues. Petrov studies Carbo’s drawing, listens intently. Of course he listens: the coach is a man many have called the best mind in the game.

And it was this I feared might be lost forever, 330 days earlier when I said goodbye to Guy in Dallas. I thought hockey might lose him—but with my own eyes I see it has not, it will not.

And an hour or so later we are waiting in the private lounge, and I see Guy Carbonneau walking towards me, saying "Hi, Diane." I shake his hand with both of mine so I can hold the whole thing; 330 days earlier he wore a cast on this hand, and I don’t mind that those sorts of trials are finished for him. And he talks to us, fifteen, twenty minutes, answering all the questions I’ve compiled over the past few weeks. Precious answers to questions both silly and important: Yes, he likes coaching very much (I remind him I told him so, and he laughs heartily)...It’s hard to motivate the team when the playoffs are effectively out of reach...The garage league he plays with on Monday nights allows him only to pass, not shoot, unless it’s an empty net.

Sure, I had a lot more questions at various points in time over the past 330 days. But the toughest of those questions are all answered now. Will you ever come back to hockey? Will you find a way to keep sharing all your remarkable gifts with the game? Will we ever see you again?

During our trip to Ottawa, my husband and I made dear friends of Guy’s cousin Jim and Jim’s girlfriend Rosie. We were privileged to experience first hand the mirth and affection which, from what we were told, characterizes Guy’s large, close, and wonderful family. It was hard to leave Jim and Rosie in a city so far from our home, but it was one of those situations when you just know you will see them again somehow, and that comforts you.

Likewise Guy said goodbye to us and left to catch the team bus back to Montreal. It was not such a hard farewell this time. It’s true that there are not a lot of Montreal bench shots on ESPN broadcasts; nevertheless knowing I haven’t seen the last of Guy makes all the difference. Whether it’s 330 days till the next time, or more, or less, there will be a next time. And for all of us fans, there will many, many more times when Guy Carbonneau does what he has always done: makes his mark on the game of hockey.

Having that happy fact driven home to me was well worth every one of the 800 miles, and all of those worrisome 330 days.