“Thanks Montreal!”

The crowd laughed a lot that night. I said goodnight and put the microphone back in the stand as I had so many times before. This performance, however, held a very special meaning. I passed the green room and went through the door leading into the open space by the freight elevator. I leaned against the wall. My heart was racing. I pulled my phone from my pocket and started to dial.

“Hello,” said Dad in his gravelly tone.

“Hey Dad! It’s Peter! Want to hear something cool?”

“Peter Anthony, boy! Well, of course!” my father shot back.

Sorry. Before I tell you what I excitedly told my old man, I think I should get you up to speed.

The trips of my childhood were fantastic. As a kid, there isn’t anything quite as exciting as a vacation. If you do it right, that same enthusiasm can be felt as an adult. As we age we need to remember to continue to experience new things, places, sights, sounds, and tastes. Along the way, we will find places we hold dear through these experiences. One such place for me is the Montreal Forum. Let me explain.

Sports is a way of life back in Nova Scotia. Growing up, most of my friends were made when I was wearing a pair of skates or cleats. Personally, by the age of 13 I had participated in hockey, soccer, tennis, baseball, and golf. I was relatively good at all of these sports but certainly not the greatest. It was around the age of 13, though, that I decided to make a push to excel at hockey. That inspiration occurred during a vacation to Montreal with my father and brother.

We had family in Montreal. My mother’s uncle and aunt lived there and we were quite close with them. Pete and Dick. Yes, my great aunt’s name was Dick. I’m still not sure why, where, nor when people started calling her Dick. Her real name was Gertrude. What kind of a dick names a baby girl Gertrude? And my poor Uncle Pete. Can you imagine the torment he endured at his work for VIA Rail:

“Pete, where’s your Dick?” “Pete, say hi to your Dick.” “Pete, don’t be mad but I kissed your Dick hello last night.”

My Uncle Pete was a saint of a man whose Italian heritage seeped through every pore. The man even maintained the stereotype by making one of the greatest sauces I’ve ever tasted. It’s a recipe that’s made the round though my family’s kitchens for decades.

So, a trip to Montreal was never complete without a visit to Uncle Pete and Aunt Dick’s humble abode in Verdun. It was here we feasted on spaghetti, set out our plans for Montreal, and listened to Aunt Dick spout off about her disdain for the French. When it came to French, Dick couldn’t speak a lick. I always thought life in Quebec would be easier if you just took the time to learn to be conversational, but Dick was set in her ways. There is stubbornness and then there is Aunt Dick. Mon dieu!

Uncle Pete, who personified patience, consistently had to deal with a very demanding Dick. They had a long, unique relationship that ended one day about 20 years ago when Pete took a massive heart attack on the couch while watching television. Aunt Dick found him, lying peacefully, with that big golden cross he always wore over his heart. Peter Anthony Spitichinne was just 67… And Dick? Still kicking. She’s 95. Told you she was stubborn.

You could make your way from Verdun to downtown Montreal on the metro in under an hour. That was the first subway I ever experienced. I remember the rubbery smell, in particular. To this day, I’m instantly taken back to Verdun station whenever the smell of rubber hits my nostrils. So, technically, I’m thinking of two dicks every time I unwrap a condom.

The streets of downtown Montreal are an incredible sight to behold for a 13-year- old boy. It’s cosmopolitan to its core; a different world from the small, northern Nova Scotia town I knew. The people, the styles, the language, the cafes, restaurants, buses, cars, tourists! My head was on a swivel. And I always had one nagging question for my father:

“Dad, is that a strip club?”
“Yes it is.”

“Dad, is that another strip club.”
“Yes, it is.”

“Dad, there sure are a lot of strip clubs here, aren’t there?”

“Shutup, Peter.”

My brother noticed too, but he was more excited about all the Montreal Canadiens paraphernalia littering the storefronts. Habs sweaters, hats, jackets, watches, mugs, pens -- if you could squeeze a Canadiens logo on it you could buy it in Montreal. Kenny was a huge Habs fan so Montreal was his Mecca and his black stone: the legendary Montreal Forum. I was donning an Edmonton Oilers hat and t-shirt who were going to do battle against the Habs that night in Montreal. To be entirely honest, my love for the Oilers had been fading since the trade the year earlier. It just wasn’t the same without Wayne.

The Montreal Forum hosted its first hockey game way back in 1924. That’s closing in on a century ago. It truly is “the most storied building in hockey history” as they call it. Guy Lafluer, Jean Beliveau, and Maurice Richard all hung their skates there. We knew about all the legends as Canadian kids do. The current roster we were about to see had many memorable players too such as Patrick Roy, Chris Chelios, and my brother’s favorite, Mats Naslund. The excitement was building outside the Forum that night as it is on any game night in Montreal. Fans were chanting. Scalpers were scalping. Drunks were drinking. I was about to see my very first NHL hockey game! I was a lucky kid.

The excitement outside the Forum was second only to the atmosphere inside. What a magical place! As we made our way through the crowd, I took it all in. Hockey history adorned the walls. The legends of the franchise spoke through old, black and white photos surrounding the puck-mad fans. Kenny and I would always joke about the old players’ equipment. We still do:

“Look at those skates! Looks like a knife strapped to a moccasin. How did they stand up in those? Look at how old his goalie pads are. Dad, did you invent those? Why the hell didn’t the goalie wear a mask back then? Were the pucks cream puffs? Look at the stick! No curve! No wonder they couldn’t lift a slap shot?!”

We made our way into the nose-bleeds, giggling and holding hot-dogs. Dad had a giant beer, spilling over the side onto the booze-soaked concrete floor. Down on the ice, both teams warmed up in their respective ends. I recall being amazed at how easy it was for them to snap the puck, how crisp they passed, their speed, and finesse. And the game hadn’t even started! That’s when I got a feeling deep down inside about what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to play the game. I wanted, one day, some way, to be a professional hockey player.

“Hey Dad, I bet that someday I’ll play here,” I stated, confidently. “Sure!” laughed Dad, between sips of beer.

The Habs went on to defeat the Oilers that night 7-5. We cheered and screamed and had the time of our lives. And I found an entirely new obsession: lacing up the skates as a pro.

Six months later my father dropped me off at a tryout for the local “AAA” Pee- Wee hockey team. I walked in wearing shorts and a t-shirt. The dressing room went silent. About 30 kids stared holes through me. I knew nobody. The only thing I knew was that nothing was going to stop me from embarking on a career in the NHL. There were 3 dressing rooms filled with kids just like me. We took to the ice, all 90 of us, vying for a spot on the team. We had fire in our hearts and hope in our eyes. And each day, less and less kids would be there. It was my first hockey camp and the first time I saw heartbreak. After each round of cuts kids would cry and stomp out of the rink, hugging their mothers. Fathers passed scorned looks at the coaching staff and management. I still hadn’t talked to a soul. And after 5 days of cuts the players only needed 1 dressing room now.

“Dad, I think I’m going to make it.” I said on the way home after practice. “Me too,” chuckled my father. “You can if you really want it.”

The following week the official roster was released. And yes, I made it. The journey to the NHL had begun.

I finished third on my team in scoring that year. We played in tournament after tournament. We toured the Maritime provinces extensively. We saw scouts in the stands. And I made an entire group of new friends. Our leading scorer that year was Jon Sim. Jon and I were line-mates and became fast friends. We remain so today. One day, about 7 years after I first walked into that dressing room wearing my shorts, I returned to our home rink, the New Glasgow Stadium, where Jon was holding The Stanley Cup. He tipped it back and I drank beer from its deep bowl. But that’s a whole other story.

But let’s be honest. I was never going to be a hockey player. You see, sometimes no matter how hard we push, grind, and claw away at what we want, the world has other plans. Hockey just wasn’t going to be the answer for me. I just wasn’t good enough and that became clear moving through my teenage years. Jon, Colin White, Derrick Walser, and others started to break away from the pack. They got drafted by junior teams in Quebec. Soon thereafter, they got drafted by NHL teams. So many of us were on the outside, looking in. I was so happy for my friends, but knew deep down that there must be something else for me to offer. I knew during those years that I wasn’t the best skater on the team. I didn’t have the hardest shot. I wasn’t very strong. The one thing I did best on the team, however, was make my friends laugh. Hijinks in the dressing rooms! Pranks in the hotels! Goofing around on the bus! That was my forte. Huh, life always makes sense looking backwards.

The path I took lead me away from the halls of hockey rinks and onto the stages of comedy clubs. It wasn’t even a conscience choice, to be honest. I was pulled towards the world of comedy. The first time I walked into a comedy club, I was also wearing shorts. Nobody stared at me at all. In fact, nobody noticed I was there. I sat in the back, watched the show, and slipped out. One week later I was on amateur night, once again putting myself through tryouts, attempting to separate myself from the pack, and make the pros. I exchanged body-checks for punch-lines, screams from the stands, for heckles from the crowd. True, there is no Stanley Cup in the world of standup comedy, but if you’re kind to the club manager you can get all the free pop a young man in his 20s can drink.

And do you know what? I pushed, grinded, and clawed my way into the comedy pros! There was no better sign that I made the big leagues than one fall, some years ago, when I got a call from my agent. She had booked me to perform in Montreal. Yes, I was going back once again.

Before my very first show, I walked up Rue Ste. Catherine’s to the comedy club and passed all the sights and sounds I had experienced so many years before. Beside me, an older man lead his son up the street:

“Dad, is that a strip club?”
“Be quiet, son!” he barked.
“It’s totally a strip club,” I said, smiling. Then I ducked into a corner store.

I got to 2313 Rue Ste Cathertine and took the elevator up to the third floor to The Comedy Nest. I shook hands with the doorman and walked back to the green room. The crowd started to file in shortly thereafter as the comic joked around backstage and told stories.

Just before the show started, I decided to go down through the bowels of the building to the basement to collect my thoughts and maybe even reminisce. I eventually made my way to the bottom and the middle of the floor where I was surrounded by some of the old seats they saved. I stood on the marker for center ice and looked around. You see, as the years passed the Montreal Forum became too old and the Canadiens built a new arena to host their games called the Bell Centre. The Forum, and all its coveted history, was salvaged and converted into a complex filled with restaurants and entertainment facilities. That included a comedy club.

I went back upstairs and delivered my set to an appreciative crowd, knowing all along I was going to call my father as soon as I walked off stage.

“Well, what is it?” Dad grew impatient on the phone, as he always does. My heartbeat slowed down a little, and I took a breath.

“Remember a long time ago when we came to that game in Montreal and I told you that one day I’d play in the Montreal Forum?” I asked the old man.

“I do remember that!” he shot back.

“Well, I just did.”

Peter Anthony - @PeterIsFunny