Faust, large fan of the Canadian, lives in trying times. His favorite team, once the most glorious of all sports teams, languishes in the slums. She who has won more Stanley Cups than anyone who hasn’t touched it in thirty years. Thirty years. Last season, she finished thirty-second. Thirty-second row.
Despite everything, Faust does not lose faith. Every game night, he sits religiously in front of his screen and hopes, with all his soul, that the CH will bring victory. He believes in the almighty St. Louis. Unfortunately, fate doesn’t believe in it as much as he does. Sainte-Flanelle continues to accumulate defeats.
On New Year’s Eve, the Canadiens face the Washington Capitals. Faust refused all outing invitations so as not to miss the game. No friend wanted to come watch it with him. They all picked up. Never mind. He will rock the year with his beloved team.
A glass of champagne in his hand, his blue-white-red sweater on his back, he’s ready. He says to himself that on this December 31, his team will surely have the pride of defending themselves, in honor of the greatest match ever played, on December 31, 1975, against the Red Army, at the Forum. Least draw of all draws. Faust shivers just thinking about it.
The harsh reality pulls him out of his sweet memories. Thirty-two seconds have passed, it’s already 1 to 0 for the enemy. A few minutes later, the Capiteux doubled their lead. Should he give up and join his friends? Faust is made stronger than that. They will come back up, that’s for sure. They are due, so due to win. Start of second, Caufield, the Messiah, closes the gap. His flame grew within him. But Washington responds, twice rather than once. But the Messiah does it again. But Washington still matters. At the end of the second, it’s 5 to 2 for the bad guys. Faust opens another bottle. Above all, don’t let go.
And then it’s the slaughter: 6 to 2… 7 to 2… 8 to 2… 9 to 2. This is how 2022 ends. By being crushed. Humiliated.
The texts are starting to come in. Come join us at the bar! We’re waiting for you ! Faust does not answer. He doesn’t have the heart to party. He is too discouraged. He turns off the set, stays in the dark and begins to pray:
“God, I have only one wish for the new year: that the Canadiens become a great team again. Can you answer me? »
Then comes an apparition in his living room:
“God can do nothing for you. But me, yes.
– Who are you ?
– I’m the devil !
– Ooh!
— I own the Sauveur du Canadien. Whoever can redo this team infects an invincible machine.
“Who is this prodigy?”
“Connor Bedard!” Ha ha ha ha! [Rire démoniaque.]
“Connor Bedard!” The player who breaks all records at the World Juniors!
— Yes, the one that will give Canada the gold medal!
“We don’t know that yet.
“Trust me!” Ha ha ha ha!
“And what should I do to get Connor Bedard to come and play with the Canadiens?”
“You must sell your soul to the devil!” Ha ha ha ha! From now on, and until the end of the season, you have to hope that the Canadiens lose.
‘But I’ve never done that. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been happy when he wins and sad when he loses. It’s stronger than me.
“Without Bedard, there’s no salvation.” Without him, your team will continue to be mediocre. At best, in a few years, she may be fighting for a spot in the playoffs, maybe even making it. But she won’t go much further. To win the Holy Grail, it takes heroes, Richard, Béliveau, Lafleur, Roy. You know it well. Bedard is of this caliber.
– You want me to take for the adversary of the Canadian. You want me to betray the child in me.
“Otherwise, the adult in you will die without seeing another parade.
– And what assures me that if the CH loses, it will fish Bedard?
– One thing is certain: the more he loses, the more likely he will be to do this.
“And if, in the depths of my soul, I wish the defeat of my team, you swear to me that Bedard will play for us?”
— Word of a demon.
– You tempt me.
“You must accept this pact before midnight.
— Denying my team until the end of the season…
“To find her better.”
“You are torturing me.
“10… 9… 8…”
“Sell your soul to the devil to get Bedard.” You who read me, what would you do?
— “3… 2… 1…”