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Here they are again. So soon? Here they are. Again? Here. The Montreal Canadiens. The uniforms have not changed. The people have not changed. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes. There are 1,000 guys named Pierre and 1,000 more named Claude and 1,000 more named Guy and Jean and Boom Boom and Rocket and Pocket Rocket and all of the rest. No change.
Here. Again. In Boston.
"Do not watch this," I say to my children.
"Hockey?" they ask. "You tell us not to watch hockey? We thought it was those R-rated movies on cable TV that we were not supposed to watch."
"This is more important," I tell them. "Definitely do not watch this."
I am not a particularly prudent man, but I know heartbreak when I see it, barreling out of the north, rolling down I-93, heading straight for Boston Garden. I know enough to step out of the road. Give the Montreal Canadiens room. There is another Stanley Cup playoff series at hand—the Boston Bruins tangling again with these marauders in bleu, blanc et rouge, best-of-seven for the Adams Division championship—and anyone who lives in Boston knows what the result is going to be.
"The Bruins have not won a Stanley Cup series from these people since I was born," I tell my children. "Not in my entire lifetime."
"Not since the invention of the wheel?" my children, ask.
"Not since the discovery of fire."
Forty-five years. Eighteen playoff series. Finals. Semifinals. Quarterfinals. Preliminaries. Best of seven. Best of five. Sweeps. Thrillers. The results have always been the same. The Montreal Canadiens have won. They have been favored and won. They have been underdogs and won. They have won hard and won easy, and won and won.