In an age before hockey players became helmeted and anonymous — in a rink inhabited by so many ghosts — Guy Lafleur would begin his flight down the wing, his blond mane flowing in his wake, and everyone in the Forum would hold their breath for just an instant. Hockey for the spectator is not a game of anticipation. It is so fast, so fluid, that most of the great moments arrive without a countdown. You didn’t know Paul Henderson was going to pound in that rebound until a second before he did. You didn’t really see Sidney Crosby’s golden goal coming. Outside of breakaways or booming slapshots unloaded with a wind-up from the point, it all goes by in a flash. But with Lafleur, so often there was a prelude to the main event. The acceleration. The defencemen skating backwards as fast as they could. The goaltender suddenly on high alert. The Montreal crowd chanting, like a pulse: “Guy, Guy, Guy.” There was, and there is, nothing else like it in the sport. Guy Lafleur, whose death was ...