Notes from an Underground Fan
a guest editorial by Martha Trueheart, 3/29/00

First, let me say that I wouldn't know Diane Lau if it weren't for this site. I was browsing around one July day in 1998 and came upon the only site I'd ever found that sung the praises of my favorite hockey player. I was pleasantly surprised to find it was extremely well written and appropriately reverential. While I'd never e-mailed anyone I didn't already know, I felt it necessary to let this woman know she'd created a tremendous site. Thus began Diane's and my friendship and acquaintance with many wonderful people, all of whom came together because of the professional greatness of one man: Guy Carbonneau. For the last two years, I've joined Diane, and her ever-expanding crew of Carbo fans who've met over the Internet, in Dallas for an annual pilgrimage.

Surely, I have the oddest story of how I came to be his fan, or to be a fan of the game of hockey for that matter. It was about ten years ago that I was doing a lot of reading about the history of French settlement in Canada and my native Chicago area. I had graduated from college with a degree in history and was feeling guilty that I knew more about medieval Japan than I did about my home continent or the area in which I'd been born and raised.. Moving chronologically through the history of Quebec, I began reading more and more about hockey as I reached the contemporary era.

Let me admit that I had long thought that hockey was a stupid, brutish game. In college, friends would attend our team's games and report how much fun it was. I fancied myself too much of an intellectual to get involved. How wrong I was. As I read several essays about the Richard Riot of 1955, started after then league commissioner Clarence Campbell suspended the Canadiens' star for the playoffs as punishment for shoving a linesman, I realized this was more than a sport. To this day, sociologists debate whether this event was a major turning point in the course of Quebec nationalism. Needless to say, my intellectual interest was piqued. When Chris Chelios and Denis Savard were traded for one another in June, 1990, there was an in-depth article in one of the Chicago papers about the cultural importance of hockey in Montreal and Quebec. The words "religion" and "obsession" were used. How could I continue to ignore this game?

Of course, once I became interested in hockey, there was only one team I could follow and that would be the Montreal Canadiens. In October when they played my hometown team, the Blackhawks, I listened intently on the radio. (This game was being played in Chicago and wasn't televised because of evil, self-enriching policies of the Hawks' ownership.) Broadcasters Pat Foley and Dale Talon kept talking about the play of the man who had become sole captain of the Canadiens in the wake of the Chelios trade. They talked about the excellent defensive play and the Selke Trophies and how this man, Guy Carbonneau, was heir to the throne of some guy named Bob Gainey. I was confused and intrigued all at the same time.

Over the next ten years, the confusion would wane and my admiration of Guy Carbonneau would increase exponentially. (I eventually figured out who Bob Gainey was also.) I had, however, long thought myself too cool for overt hero worship. I was content to admire from afar. During the ten years of my admiration, I had never made any attempt to meet this man. Watching his prowess on the ice was enough. Knowing that there was someone else in the world content to perform difficult but necessary work for the collective good at the expense of personal glory and enrichment was enough for me. Seeing his intelligent and steady play, valor in blocking shots, and feistiness when bad calls warranted it was fulfilling enough.

I had only thought of trying to contact him twice. I almost sent him a birthday card in 1995, after reading an article in The Hockey News about his frustration at playing through Mike Keenan's mind games. I so wanted to tell him not to give up hope or heart. Again, last spring when Guy's father died, I wanted to let him know I was thinking about him. Having lost my mother several years ago, I have some insight into the flood of emotions that he must have been feeling and remembered how comforting the condolences of friends and co-workers were. But, I thought, I don't know this person, why should I intrude in his life?

You can imagine my dilemma last Friday in Dallas when Diane told me Guy had promised her the day before that he would give her one of his sticks. She encouraged me to bring my Habs jersey to have the fight strap signed. I wrestled with this, having long disliked how fans crowd around stars, thrusting objects and pens toward them. I find it interesting that the French word for fan is "admirateur," suggesting admiration, while the English word is short for "fanatic," suggesting frighteningly mindless devotion. When I asked Guy if he'd sign my jersey, I felt much more of a fanatic than an admirer. He was in a hurry. My delaying him caused a group of autograph seekers to descend on him. After this, I felt the necessity to track him down at a local restaurant to apologize. This caused yet another dilemma because I had to interrupt his lunch to apologize for detaining him the day before.

Throughout each of these encounters, however, he was nothing less than a perfect gentleman. Certainly, after 12 years of playing in Montreal he's used to having his meals interrupted and probably worse. While I'm sure he knows this aspect of his fame goes with the territory, it seems unfair. Guy Carbonneau does not strike me as someone who wants to be famous. Rather, he is someone who loves the game of hockey and feels himself lucky enough to make a living doing so. For such a person, signing autographs and dealing with fan demands is a necessary evil. Thus, the admirer is caught in the ultimate Catch-22 because Guy's patience, politeness, and humility in dealing with fans only makes one admire him more.

I guess my reasons for writing this are mainly selfish. I wish, as many admirers do, to explain to the object of my admiration why he is admired. It is Guy Carbonneau's play that originally fueled my interest in hockey. It is his continued participation in the game that keeps me interested in a National Hockey League that has increasingly become a circus. Guy Carbonneau embodies, as do few of his contemporaries, la fierté pour toujours, the unending pride of le Club de Hockey Canadien. In this me-first era of escalating salaries and contract holdouts it is unlikely there will ever be another like him. His ability to turn tragedy into triumph and potential defeat into victory serve as a testament to the unique qualities on which he has built his career. His devotion to the game, and his burning desire to continue playing despite being "old" in hockey years, is an inspiration for anyone wrestling with self-doubt. Thank you, Guy.

See also:

Darkest Before the Dawn (the author meets Guy)