Hockey was part of my growing up. Going to a hockey game when I was a kid meant cheering the Arcola-Kisbey Combines – which escalated into a (mostly) verbal blood feud if the opponant was the despised Carlyle Cougars, from the rival town to the east.
One end of the rink had a large lobby for the little kids and seniors who preferred to stay warm, the glass looking onto the ice surface protected by chain link. A hard shot could stretch the chain link enough to break a window, though that didn’t happen very often. When it did, the player responsible was legend for a month.
Most watched from the stands, in the cold – elbow to elbow, on 4 rows of wooden bleachers, drinking hot chocolate or coffee, shifting weight from leg to leg in a vain attempt to keep toes from freezing, yelling encouragement, insulting the enemy, cheering the goals.
Watching from the bleachers meant staying sharp and never taking your eye off the game – the wooden boards had no plexiglass, and you had to be ever ready to dodge a 60 mph puck. The reckless older boys stood against those boards, leaning over as far as their torsos would allow, to catch the action when it was at the other end of the rink – ducking and scrambling when the play returned to their own, and players body checked and thrown halfway over, sticks flying.
The moisture from our breath froze in the air and rose to the roof to form hoarfrost. The sound of skates carving ice, body checks, cheers and taunts echoed in the cold.
Sometimes there were fights, and nearly always they were fair, square and honorably fought. And sometimes there were injuries, but absent a freak accident, they were minor – the players had jobs, families or school to go back to in the morning. They were not paid. They kept the sticks down.
Between the periods, you waited as players first made their way off the ice and into their dressing rooms, and then you followed the rest of the crowd, shuffling politely into the warmth. You lined up for a home cooked burger and fries drenched in vinegar, salt and ketchup.
No one was paid for anything. Volunteers served as time keepers and referees, took in the gate, made the pies, served in the kitchen, cleaned the bathrooms, chaperoned the kids. Volunteers scraped the tortured ice with hand shovels and reflooded the surface in preparation for the next period. Many decades earlier, volunteers had built the rink. (They still do. When the rink burned down 2 years ago, volunteers raised the money and rebuilt it.)
That was hockey.
I haven’t been to a game for years. Not since they put the plexiglass up.
