I’ve topped a few of my own personal lists.
I arrived home only at 1am, wide awake, with the dust of pepper spray still lightly resting on my eyelashes, still beaming from the biggest win I can recall, while my mind was still flashing from the sensory overload that was St. Catherine and Drummond. Uncountable empty and still foaming full beer bottles were thrown into crowds of hundreds, and at horses and baton wielding riot cops. People climbing everything. Firework cannons being unleashed from the hands of drunk men in the middle of the closed down intersection. A man taking a piss in the middle of a crowd of thousands, just because he could. Fires in the gutters, burnings of Lindros jerseys (why not, right?) and giant cutouts of Crosby (still don’t know where they got it from).
I almost called it a night when I heard a girl say to her boyfriend, ‘Let’s go before we get pepper-sprayed again.’ but decided to stay out there a while longer. I had heard about such things and seen them on the news, but had no idea the full extent of what game seven meant in Montreal. My throat burned, my eyes watered, my head spun. And a few raging hooligans couldn’t help but satisfy their addiction to the racket of shattering glass. Free shoes!
It almost distracts from the hockey. The magnificent and graceful splendor of it all.
Half way there, and I’ve already never seen anything like it.
For more photos, click the one above.