I won’t lie, I don’t have a great passion for hockey.
My personal history with this sport ends at the time of Bobby Smith, Larry Robinson, Patrick Roy, Claude Lemieux and Stéphane Richer.
When I feel like diving into it again, every two years, I listen in bursts to the first three seasons of Lance and count.
I like the idea of a Quebec team that gets yelled at in French in the locker room by Jacques Mercier and then wins the Stanley Cup.
I like the National to stay in Quebec because Quebeckers fight to keep it when we want to steal it from them and bring it abroad, to Canada.
I like science fiction, you will tell me.
Which brings me to the last NHL draft, where the Canadian was not even screwed to draft a Quebecer.
I don’t know the sport well, but I know the value of symbols.
And here the symbol is very clear. The Canadian, whom the Québécois take for their national team, does not care to take root in the country where he lives.
Team leaders now see it only as one franchise among many in the sports industry. They always find a reason to not give a damn about it, and pass off those who have a concern for identity as out of date.
The Canadians bear the old name of the Quebec people. Because in the old days we were Canadians, while English Canadians were English.
The Canadian reminds us of our history, when our only possible victories were in sport, when the Stanley Cup was our outlet.
Quebecers invest part of their identity in the Canadian. It would be good if its leaders remembered that Quebec is not just a market, but a country, and that it should not be frowned upon to reach out to Quebeckers from time to time.