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My love affair with the Montreal Canadiens began when I was 3. I wasn’t allowed to stay up until the end of the game, of course — especially given that La Soirée du hockey had an 8 p.m. start back then — but those Saturday nights spent in our suburban family basement with a 17-inch black-and-white television and a cozy Franklin stove felt like paradise. There was nowhere we’d rather be, except maybe at the Forum.

According to family lore, that’s also when my father realized I would do really well in English school, because I had no problem pronouncing “Ma-HOV-lich — unlike my mother Huguette and all our French-Canadian relatives who referred to Pete and Frank as “MAO-vlich.”

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My mother had been watching Les Glorieux since her youth, when she and all her siblings would crowd around the newly acquired TV to witness the exploits of the Rocket, Boom Boom, Béliveau and company.

But when the Expos came to town, and especially when they became contenders during the late-1970s, we all stood up and took notice. The Habs were so good, you could basically take them for granted, so there was something exciting about discovering a whole new sport and having a new team to root for.