Mike Ribeiro, NHL All-Star.
Read that sentence again. Resist the urge to smash your limited edition Pierre Dagenais bobblehead against the wall. Do not phone Bob Gainey to complain. Do not curse Janne Ninnima to the heavens. Curse Mickey Ribs, who could have had it all in Montreal ... but fucked over his hometown franchise and fans.
Do you remember the ascension of Mickey Ribs? Local phenom, scoring almost at will at every level of youth hockey. A spot at the world's most famous hockey launch pad, the Quebec Pee-Wee Tourney. Scoring titles and scouts aplenty as a Triple A player. All-Star teams and Canadian Hockey League scoring titles as a junior in Rouyn-Noranda. Snapped up by his boyhood favourites in the 2nd round in 1998. Shoved to the forefront too early by an overwhelmed and desperate Ronald Corey and Reggie Houle, who needed something, anything to placate the fans after the debacle of the Roy trade and the horrid performance of the rudderless Habs.
You want a snapshot of the Corey regime's shortsightedness? Look at Mickey Ribs. Too small and slow coming out of junior, ill-prepared for fourth-line spot duty in the NHL, he was rushed into the starting lineup to thunderous applause and overblown expectations. He was shuttled back and forth between the AHL and NHL, force-fed to the National Junior team (rumours persist that the Corey and Houle only released Ribeiro for duty after receiving guarantees that Mickey Ribs and noted Canadiens draft bust Eric Chouinard would be first-liners ... lo and behold they were, undeservedly sucking up power play time from more motivated, more effective players), and handed a spot on a scoring line despite an alarming tendency to a) not play defense, b) get shoved around by every single player on earth and c) fall to the ground at the slightest of touches.
For every marvelous move behind the net, Mickey Ribs had two glaring defensive lapses. For each time he made running buddy Dagenais look like a sniper, there was Mickey Ribs shunning contact or tiptoeing around the offensive zone like a kid sneaking in after curfew. For each platitude about his hockey sense there was an apocryphal story about his continued lack of fitness. For each public appearance as the future of the franchise, there were whispers of two or three late nights spent out on the town.
Yes, the Habs were a lousy hockey team for much of that time. Yes, Mickey Ribs got rushed, jerked around by the clueless Houle, and feted too quickly by the Montreal media. The Canadiens organization and its fans deserve a share of the criticism for the way the Mickey Ribs era went down. But know this, you little twerp:
It wasn't the Canadiens who acted like a snarky little punk in the dressing room.
It wasn't the fans who didn't put in the necessary work on hockey basics like defensive zone coverage, faceoffs, backchecking, and avoiding lazy, jackass hooking penalties.
It wasn't the media who didn't spend any time working out in order to develop some semblance of the physique required of a professional athlete, rather than stick with the build of a high school clarinet player.
It certainly wasn't the Habs or anyone else's idea to collapse like you'd been shot, only to laugh about it on the bench moments later (against our most hated of rivals no less), causing the franchise and its supporters untold embarrassment and leaving proud men like Beliveau, the Richards, Gainey, and Koivu to wonder why a punk kid would cheapen their legacy.
No, Mickey Ribs, it was you. You, who so polarized a dressing room and a fanbase. You, who promised so much and really delivered so little. You who forced Bob's hand to the point where he essentially gave you away rather than put up with your lazy, unmotivated, no-backchecking, pansy, party-instead-of-work-on-my-numerous-deficiencies, scrawny ass. You, who after experiencing some sort of epiphany when you realized you wouldn't be mollycoddled and protected by certain fawning Montreal media and apologists and might see your ass carted right out of the league, decided to,
in your own words "put my head in the right place and do what I have to do to be successful"
It was you who threw the Habs under the bus when you said things like this:
"They [the Dallas coaches] let me play the way I can can play ... You try to make plays. If I create a turnover, well, they won't bench me. They'll tell me to keep playing smart and create offence."
"If [the Canadiens] gave me the chance from the beginning [in a scoring role] maybe I would have started being the player I am now a bit earlier. I always knew, deep down, I could be that player. Playing with good players and a good team has helped."
You know what, jackass? You were too small, too slow, and too lazy to warrant any special treatment and still got it from the Habs. You got put on the top line when Koivu was hurt. You received plenty of power play time. You got plenty of chances considering you didn't work on your strength, conditioning, skating, or attitude in the SEVEN FUCKING YEARS you were in the organization. And suddenly it's all the Canadiens fault? Fuck you, you little punk. Christ, the Canadiens paid a salary to your idiot drinking buddy Pierre Fucking Dagenais for two years to keep you happy and you still crapped the bed. Now you're in Dallas and on pace for 90 points, and it's the Canadiens fault? Suddenly you get to Dallas, keep your fucking mouth shut in the dressing room, go home after practice instead of out to Crescent Street, hit the gym for the first time in your fucking life and it's the Canadiens fault? God, I wish someone would break your skinny ass in half. Enjoy the All-Star game, Mickey. It should be right up your alley, since no one is going to throw a hit or play defence. Can't wait to see you improve on your 8 points in 24 career playoff games when someone like Dion Phaneuf is using your spine as a fucking toothpick this spring.
Fucker.
