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Loud cheers echo against the tall ceilings, almost drowning out the song, as blue jerseys begin to appear on the ice, circling the goal at one end.
White jerseys with stripes of green file on at the other end to a chorus of boos and jeers.
Saying Holt has the home ice advantage here seems like a massive understatement. If anyone in the stands came to cheer for today’s opponent, they’re lost in a sea of blue.
Rather than focus on any of the players warming up, my eyes seek out my dad.
He’s standing behind the bench, arms folded as he watches his guys on the ice.
He’s wearing a tie and button-down beneath his Holt Hockey jacket, and an impassive expression.
I’m not fooled by the lack of animation on his face, though. That’s just my dad—his exterior is usually gruff, measured, and calm. This is his happy place, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
I know he’s having the time of his life watching his teamwarm up, standing expressionless while tapping a folded sheet of paper against his arm. I’m sure he’s chewing gum too. As a kid, I used to marvel at the collection of gum wrappers in his glove compartment. It was a running joke for years, that all my dad would want as a gift was a few packs of Trident.
A slightly younger guy dressed identically to my dad sidles up beside him, saying something that has my dad nodding. I’m assuming that’s Dean Zimmerman, the assistant coach. I’ve heard my dad mention his name before but never actually met him. He only joined the team a few years ago, long after I’d stopped attending games.
One of the officials stops at the Holt bench, and my dad leans forward to talk to him.
A couple of blue jerseys skate closer to the bench to listen to the conversation. My dad says something to one of them, and he skates closer, turning so I can see the name and number on the back.Hartand15. The team captain.
The ref skates toward the visitor’s bench next, but the two Holt players remain. My dad steps closer to the barrier between the bench and the ice, beckoning to both Hart and the other player to come closer. They form a small huddle, and I catch a glimpse of the back of the other blue jersey.
Phillipsand34.
With a start, I realize that’s Aidan talking to my dad.
I know they talk, obviously. He’s Aidan’s coach. They must exchange words.
But it’s bizarre to see it happen, to watch the stranger I met in a hot tub and my father having a conversation knowing they’ve done so dozens of times before.
I came to the game because of my dad.
But I’d be lying if I said I’m not curious to watch Aidan play.
The rest of Holt’s players are joining Aidan and Conor, clustering around the bench in a blob of blue.
My dad is talking, the entire team focused on him.
I experience a sudden rush of pride. All of these people are here to watch his players, but they’rehisplayers. He recruited them. Trained them. Inspired them. Turned this team that no one except him cared about into an attraction that everyone in here is rooting for.
Most of the blue jerseys file off the ice, the bulky form of the goalie and five others remaining. They all face the flag, and the National Anthem starts playing.
Once the song ends, the announcer comes back on the loudspeaker. He starts by announcing Willis, the goalie. Followed by two unfamiliar names who must be the defensemen. “Robby Sampson!” receives a healthy amount of applause. “Hunter Morgan!” gets even more. And then there’s a long, deliberate pause before “And your captain and leading scorer…CONOR HART!” is announced.
The noise in the arena hits a new decibel before petering off as soon as the starting lineup for today’s opponent, Smithdale, is announced to mostly silence and a few boos.
I scan the bench until I find 34. He’s seated but leaning forward, holding his stick with both hands as he looks out at the ice.
I wonder if it bothers Aidan that his best friend bumped him to the second line. His stats aren’t Hall of Fame worthy, but they’re respectable. And he’s a senior. On another team, his name would have just been announced over the loudspeaker as part of the starters.
The official drops the puck in the very center of the largest circle, and the game begins.
I lean forward automatically, trying to gain the best viewpossible as I watch the puck bounce off the boards, then get picked up by a white jersey and carried toward the goal guarded by a blue jersey.
Smithdale takes its first shot and misses, thankfully.
Another drop, this one uncomfortably close to Holt’s goal. Conor wins the face-off, zipping up the ice so quickly it hardly looks like the other players are moving at all. He takes a shot on goal that the Smithdale goalie saves, and then the lines change.
