In the continuing series Your Story, today we feature another submission to “How I Became a Habs Fan.” Stina, known to us as @The AbraxasCo on Twitter, has agreed to share her experiences growing up as a Habs fan in Vancouver.

by Stina, Special to All Habs

I shouldn’t be a Habs fan.

Actually, technically, I shouldn’t be a fan of any team.

VANCOUVER, BC. — Let me explain: I come from what can only be described as a “hockey family”, from playing semi pro, to coaching, to running an association, to selling programs for the local junior team, to manning endless score clocks, to selling that horrible instant coffee from the Burnaby Minor Hockey concession stand during early morning games, my family has been involved in all aspects of the game, but despite this love for the game, I’m the only one with “a team”. Though perhaps I should be thanking my parents that our house didn’t idolize the home team or my “birthright” could have been the hideous yellow, orange and black “V” jerseys of the early 80s Canucks. (Still the worst jersey of all time, in my opinion).

I was the first grandchild for this hockey mad family and my future position was a heated topic of conversation while I was still in the womb (My grandfather was fond of defensemen and apparently I was destined to be the perfect combination of Bobby Orr and Larry Robinson, while my father idolized Ted Lindsey and was certain I would end up a scrappy forward). Unfortunately I dashed all their big hockey dreams by being born a girl, right before organized girls hockey started to catch on and while my parents are somewhat progressive hockey was still a “boys” game: there would be no organized hockey for me.  So I inherited a love for the game, but no opportunity to play it.

I watched “Hockey Night in Canada” and through Dick Irvin (the best ever) and Harry Neale learned about “The Great One”, “Super Mario” and Mike Bossy. I was carted along to various lower mainland rinks to watch my grandfathers beloved Grandview Steelers and I learned to skate under his careful tutelage at weekend public skate sessions at The Trout Lake Arena.

[A brief home team shoutout: The Olympics were a lot of different things to this city, and though this isn’t really the place to comment on it, one undeniably great things that came from it is the new rink at the Trout Lake community center. Former home of the Grandview Steelers and an East Vancouver institution, it’s worth a look the next time you are in Vancouver.]

My parents have never been the types to quit while they were ahead, so we welcomed my brother a few years later and though a cousin removed some of the hockey playing pressure from his shoulders there was no doubt that mini tyke was in his future. When he started playing I became a rink rat by default, joining the legions of “hockey sisters” who grow up in the stands and by the beginning of peewee can judge the talent pool of a minor hockey organization as well as any coach and have tried every kind of packaged hot chocolate on the market. I also finally (indirectly) got the chance to play.

When my brother started, novice players were starting to develop “hockey personalities” and some really eager parents had already decided that the ratty organization owned goalie equipment wasn’t enough and outfitted their little Grant Fuhr’s in brand new stiff as a board goalie gear (there are few things cuter than watching a six year old skating in brand new goalie gear). My father overheard one of the dad’s talking about the cost of pads and quickly decided that my brother’s road to super stardom would be a bit easier on the pocket book (and he still had dreams of a mini Ted Lindsey) and thus he had better learn to shoot a puck.

This plan was not foolproof however, as his little sharp shooter needed every advantage and obviously wasn’t going to make the NHL by shooting on one of those plastic “target goalies.”  No, my brother needed something better: cue nine year old Stina with a plastic mini stick and a baseball glove.

I was ecstatic, like I had finally been given my chance to shine even if it was just in the driveway (East Coast readers I’m sure your expecting this heartwarming story to end with my father building a mini rink in the backyard complete with a scoreboard and lights, alas this is the West Coast where road hockey goes year round). My family fondly referred to those practice sessions and mini games as “Target Practice” and I had ball sized bruises in various places throughout my childhood (thankfully my teachers were not exactly perceptive).

The mini stick eventually became a Vaughn “Regulation NHL” one and the softball I began to play year round really improved my glove hand, and my brother eventually learned to shoot the “puck” (orange hockey ball) pretty well (much to the delight of my shins, shoulders and elbows). Unfortunately the closest he got to the NHL was the games he pretended to be Pavel Bure (hey this was Vancouver in the early nineties), but those games are some of my fondest childhood memories and the closest I got to a game that seems to be in my blood.

So I’m sure you’re wondering when I’m going to get to the point of this whole thing: Why am I a Habs fan?

Well, while my brother was doing his best Pavel Bure imitation I was busy pretending I was someone else too. St. Patrick caught my attention pretty quickly once I became “a goalie”. I used to listen to Dick Irvin call him the best and figured if I was going to model my game after anyone, he might be a good choice. I started watching the Habs for the goalie who talked to his posts and played the game with passion and along the way I fell in love with the team as well.

I used to make my parents watch French CBC (ok Radio Canada) because out west we get force fed the Leafs as the early game 90 percent of the time and grew fond of randomly shouting out “Le But” (20 years later my French has not improved) and got my first jersey when I was nine: red with a white “33” on the back.

One year later I was fortunate enough to see them live. They lost to the Canucks 5-to-3 and I was heckled by two drunk Canuck fans the entire game (I know we have to hate Leaf fans almost by default, but Canuck fans are almost in a league of their own). Unfortunately I haven’t been able to see them live since.

One of the strange things about being a Habs fan outside of Montreal is how you are able to craft your own mythology around the team: the problems with Roy and Tremblay were unknown to me and “Le Trade” was unexpected and devastating.  But it also gave me a bit of perspective: my love for the team with all that history had transcended my early connection to St. Patrick and given me a new perspective on tradition.

I live in a city that considers anything pre 1940’s “old” and one that struggles with story and identity and the Habs (for better or worse) remind me that we do have rich traditions and stories that can stretch across the country. The discovery of the Habs online community during this past season was also a reminder that even though I will likely never live in Montreal, this team is something that connects the entire fanbase to a city, a history and a hockey culture that is about class and excellence.

(There goes that personally mythology again…..)