The Miracle of November 29

Folk, accent québécois, voix solo, recto tono, calm, peaceful, ‑Opera, ‑bel canto, ‑tremolo, ‑vibrato, ‑agressive, ‑sarcastic, ‑shouting, ‑theatrical electric instruments

As Chaplain of the Holy Flannel,
I have grown accustomed, over time,
to all the announcements of miracles.
It feels like the Cup is coming every year
since nineteen ninety-four.

Crosby is supposed to come play for the Canadiens —
and if I lean into mysticism, it only gets worse.

The “three days of darkness” associated
with Saint Padre Pio and Saint Anna-Maria Taïgi
did not happen;

the apocalyptic predictions
attributed to Saint Malachy
did not happen either;

the apocryphal apparitions
of Saint Francis of Assisi
promising peace on a specific date
failed as well;

the prophecy of the “Great Monarch,”
in which Saint Michael would intervene openly
in human history,
came to nothing;

the promise of a shower of rose petals
from Saint Thérèse fell through.

But the mystique of hockey
escapes all other domains of faith.

As the old saying goes:
it’s when you don’t announce the avalanche
that it happens.

Against all odds,
the revenge of Canadiens fans
against the Avalanche
took place before our eyes
without us even asking for it.

Good Padre Martin McGuire
pulled off a hat trick
that never actually happened,
by deciding not to name the Avalanche
and to refer to them as the Nordiques
for uniform-related reasons.

And so it happened that,
while we were being practically chalakered
live by the Nordiques,
the Avalanche fans threw their hats —
sixty American dollars each,
plus thirty dollars of Trump tax —
onto the ice,
mindlessly,
like sheep
being led to the slaughterhouse.

With the Canadiens’ defeat
in the midst of unfolding,
we witnessed
a collective hat suicide
at the mere suggestion of Padre McGuire,
turning their team’s victory
into an expensive loss
for the bewildered supporters.

Saint Maurice Richard
could have tried it —
even the Holy Father in Rome
wouldn’t be able to make that pass.

I can throw myself
onto the tomb of Saint Brother André,
crying in the Oratory
begging for Crosby to move to Montreal,
yet Padre McGuire,
while still alive,
makes sports caps rain down at will,
to the detriment of their owners.

They may have defeated
the Holy Flannel with cruelty,
but it was the Avalanche fans
who walked out bare-headed
from Ball Arena,
completely “bald.”

It is a miracle
linked to distributive justice
in Saint McGuire,
who, despite the best intentions in the world,
makes the opposing headgear
bite the ice,
even interrupting the game
to allow our valiant ones
to score two goals.

This miracle of November twenty-ninth,
the faithful of the Holy Flannel
will retell it
for generations to come.

The Church of the Holy Flannel
proclaims Padre McGuire
Canon of the Tearful Cap.

Hallelujah, Amen,
Amen and amène z’an des casquettes
(“bring on the hats, all of ’em”).

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As Chaplain of the Holy Flannel, I have grown accustomed, over time, to all the announcements of miracles. It feels like the Cup is coming every year since nineteen ninety-four. Crosby is supposed to come play for the Canadiens — and if I lean into mysticism, it only gets worse. The “three days of darkness” associated with Saint Padre Pio and Saint Anna-Maria Taïgi did not happen; the apocalyptic predictions attributed to Saint Malachy did not happen either; the apocryphal apparitions of Saint Francis of Assisi promising peace on a specific date failed as well; the prophecy of the “Great Monarch,” in which Saint Michael would intervene openly in human history, came to nothing; the promise of a shower of rose petals from Saint Thérèse fell through. But the mystique of hockey escapes all other domains of faith. As the old saying goes: it’s when you don’t announce the avalanche that it happens. Against all odds, the revenge of Canadiens fans against the Avalanche took place before our eyes without us even asking for it. Good Padre Martin McGuire pulled off a hat trick that never actually happened, by deciding not to name the Avalanche and to refer to them as the Nordiques for uniform-related reasons. And so it happened that, while we were being practically chalakered live by the Nordiques, the Avalanche fans threw their hats — sixty American dollars each, plus thirty dollars of Trump tax — onto the ice, mindlessly, like sheep being led to the slaughterhouse. With the Canadiens’ defeat in the midst of unfolding, we witnessed a collective hat suicide at the mere suggestion of Padre McGuire, turning their team’s victory into an expensive loss for the bewildered supporters. Saint Maurice Richard could have tried it — even the Holy Father in Rome wouldn’t be able to make that pass. I can throw myself onto the tomb of Saint Brother André, crying in the Oratory begging for Crosby to move to Montreal, yet Padre McGuire, while still alive, makes sports caps rain down at will, to the detriment of their owners. They may have defeated the Holy Flannel with cruelty, but it was the Avalanche fans who walked out bare-headed from Ball Arena, completely “bald.” It is a miracle linked to distributive justice in Saint McGuire, who, despite the best intentions in the world, makes the opposing headgear bite the ice, even interrupting the game to allow our valiant ones to score two goals. This miracle of November twenty-ninth, the faithful of the Holy Flannel will retell it for generations to come. The Church of the Holy Flannel proclaims Padre McGuire Canon of the Tearful Cap. Hallelujah, Amen, Amen and amène z’an des casquettes (“bring on the hats, all of ’em”).

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