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Montrealers woke to a spectacular cloudless sky Thursday, but many will report the city felt greyer for the imminent departure of Canadiens defenceman P.K. Subban.

The 27-year-old will be missed, but won't cease to be a folk hero simply because he's relocating to Nashville; in trying to pin down exactly what made Subban a transcendent sporting personality, it's helpful to relate a few anecdotes.

Although Subban's involvement with the Montreal Children's Hospital dates to his rookie season, it reached a new level last May.

As the hospital's charitable foundation held its annual fundraising gala at Windsor Station – adjacent to the Bell Centre – a young patient was invited on stage and asked by the evening's MC, pop singer Ima, what would improve the picture he'd painted of his favourite hockey player, Subban.

An autograph, perhaps? That's when Subban was introduced, to thunderous applause.

Organizers had suggested he bring along a jersey or two to auction off. He brought 100. Then, he took the microphone to announce the price: $1,000 each. After that, he invited bidding on tickets to a private event he was hosting.

"In 20 minutes, he raised $140,000," said Marie-Josée Gariépy, the foundation's president.

Each jersey came with a photo and autograph, and dozens of members of Montreal's social set wandered home with Habs sweaters over their ball gowns or tuxedos.

A short time later, Subban was touring the hospital's new home in west-end Montreal and asked how much it would cost to sponsor the grand atrium entrance.

Ten million dollars, Gariépy said. Subban replied he'd need some time to think.

"He didn't think about it for very long," Gariépy recalled.

Beyond dollars, Subban has donated time, more of it than most people know.

After the announcement of his pledge – it came during training camp last year, apparently to the frustration of some team officials – he spent several hours touring every room.

On another occasion, he spotted a boy he'd met briefly some months earlier. He called out the child's name, to his family's astonishment, and stopped to inquire about his treatment.

"There are dozens of stories like that. He would always remember names, I've never seen anything like it," said Gariépy, who got a call from her marquee benefactor on Thursday morning (he had reached out from Paris, where he is holidaying, immediately after the trade).

He is even genial to opposing fans: one Bruins fan and his son stumbled upon Subban at Park, the Westmount sushi restaurant he haunts on a quasi-daily basis, and watched as the Habs superstar gently mocked the preschooler's Boston jersey. Then, he picked him up in his arms and insisted on a picture.

Spontaneous gestures of kindness are not uncommon among pro athletes.

Subban is not the first to pull over to the curb and join a road hockey game; he's not the first to pay attention to people's names on hospital visits.

But unlike many players of his generation, he thrives on it and seeks to make connections with people.

"You need to have a special kind of confidence in yourself to be like that. I was in New York with him recently, where, let's face it, nobody knows who he is. But he'd meet people's eyes and say hello. That's who he is," said Mark Patrick, the co-founder of Sartorialto, the chic Plateau Mont-Royal tailor's boutique where Subban gets many of his bespoke suits. "I was thinking yesterday that I might miss him more than just about anyone, but as I look at what all the hard-core fans are saying, I'm thinking that's probably not true."

Reaction to the deal is split in that a large majority of fans have screamed themselves hoarse at what they consider the lunacy of it all, while a minority shrugged and said "meh, hockey trade." Opinion makers also ran the gamut of commentary – from smug triumphalism to fiery denunciation – which broke down along predictable linguistic and generational lines.

Naturally, it all had a valedictory feel; the next Subban sighting in Montreal should be some time around Aug. 1, when he plays host to a Just for Laughs comedy gala in support of Children's Hospital.

Festival promoters wouldn't comment on whether the trade has affected ticket sales – but they did issue a statement: "Like all Montreal hockey fans, we are saddened to hear about P.K.'s trade, but we are completely committed and moving forward."

Gariépy said some seats remain. They probably won't for long.

Perhaps summer festival season will improve the disposition of a wild, anything-goes town – which happens to love a hidebound, conservative hockey team.

The Subban deal, and the whispers of dressing-room and front-office discontent that have followed it, suggests management considers the game from an accountant's perspective; they like efficiency experts, not artists.

Surely, it's a coincidence that the longest-serving players are brothers in taciturnity, Tomas Plekanec and Andrei Markov.

Fans, judging by the flood of pictures of people doing permanent harm to their official replica Hab jerseys, prefer to be inspired by genius.

Love for the Habs is said to be unconditional; fans forgave the team for forcing Guy Lafleur into retirement, they absolved the trades of Patrick Roy and Chris Chelios.

Yet, principal owner Geoff Molson is fond of saying the only thing that reliably preserves fan loyalty is winning.

Perhaps trading the face of the franchise will help the team win. It had better.

Shea Weber, the other half of the trade, is a fine hockey player and likely Hall of Famer. He also carries a low-maintenance reputation, which is partly why general manager Marc Bergevin is so plainly excited to get him.

If there is an enduring characteristic to this team through its history, it is ruthless, club-above-all-else control.

It applies to everything from access to players, to corporate messaging and branding, to partnerships, to guarding commercial rights.

Subban, the essence of a free spirit, was not easily governed.

Considering the broader context, and the fact that Subban – a canny businessman – was committed to building his own brand, it couldn't work.

And now a city bemoans what has been lost.

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