The Canadian won on Wednesday evening in Columbus, a good thing for him, but we cannot believe he has revived yet. The Habs beat a viable opponent, whom they knew how to take.
But victory or defeat, it doesn’t matter to me in the circumstances. I want us to talk about Martin St-Louis.
I feel like talking about the coach, because I don’t like what I see. He seems to visibly lose the pleasure of leading. This man who came to the arena running with a smile on his face is now dejected and short of solutions.
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Martin no longer wants to play down the painful situation of his club in front of the media after the matches. He struggles to find anything positive, having found some after an 8-2 end in October.
Worse, we hear him thinking in front of the media which are very, very far from Larry Brooks, the little pest of New York Post. We spare Martin, because the culture in Montreal is now to treat the Canadian coach with great respect.
But no matter, Martin is basically tripping over himself. We feel that he thinks too much before speaking. He lost the fraction of a second. The honeymoon is well and truly over. The flavor of the month has gone out of fashion even more than a common pumpkin latte in October.
It’s a big truth: when things are going well for a team, all the players in the club are real. However, it is when things go badly that we recognize the true from the true… and that we distinguish the true from the false.
And in the current debacle, Martin, a real one, flirts with the specter of the false. For what? Because he is a man alone and now hounded by a majority portion of supporters and observers.
Also because he cannot turn to anyone in the organization to calm down, to find comfort and good advice.
Behind the bench, with him, are two guys taking their first steps in this role in the NHL. Its general director remains a rookie and the shadow bridge deputy, a certain Roger Grillo, has nothing to do with rhyme with brio.
On the road to failure
Which brings me to my main point: St. Louis has failed in its mandate thus far. His refusal to surround himself better and delegate more causes him problems.
But he cannot be held solely responsible for this pathetic observation. His immediate superiors are also in check and their good moves often remain, for the moment, bets which will prove their worth in time.
Enough to peacefully put the owner to sleep, filled with the hope that all this pain will irremediably cause great happiness, a found Stanley Cup.
I don’t want to hurt anyone or be a prophet of doom, but I have become convinced that this Stanley Cup is not going to be lifted by Martin St-Louis in Montreal. No more by Kent Hughes or Jeff Gorton.
I think that the path on which Geoff Molson accepted that the Canadian takes continues to destabilize us, to disillusion us.
In Buffalo, we don’t even believe it anymore. Neither in Ottawa. Here, in the hockey capital of the world, we continue to believe it for the moment, finding in the process an obvious culprit.
I disagree.
Martin St-Louis has his share of responsibility, but if Hughes and Gorton are incapable of making him listen to reason, of putting on their leadership pants, then they are also guilty.
Them, but especially the controlling shareholder. Geoff Molson, who bears all this latent and painful laxity, this torture of the drop of water which pours into the vase of eternal reconstruction.
