Last Friday, I think it was... I woke up in cold sweat, teary-eyed... I had just killed Jean Béliveau.
First things first... it was a dream.
It was winter, cold as fuck, but for some reason, it didn't bother me (it sure does in real life). My grandmother (who is 70, four feet tall, can barely walk because both of knees are fucked up) and I went to play outdoors hockey at the rink across from the house where we lived in and, lo and behold, she could hold her own. She made a few nice passes, kept up with the kids and adults, and when she needed a rest, manned the nets.
For some reason, the rink was also situated across another street from my elementary school, and at some point, I dropped playing, took my skates off, put sneakers on, and met up with Jean Béliveau. We then proceeded to run up the hill leading to the school when he just fell in a hole that was in the ground... a hole that looked dug by a human, six feet deep, six feet wide, maybe ten feet long... and keep in mind Mr. Béliveau is 78 years old and starting to feel the traces of time take hold... so he broke both legs and died before an ambulance could come.
Then I woke up crying.
Fucked thing is Mr. Béliveau suffered a CVA recently. I wish him all the best. The Man is a Legend, a Gentleman a Class Act - yes, all capitalized.
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