Hockey Night In Mineola

A couple of weeks ago, a scene played out at Port Credit Arena that has likely been played out in similar fashion at hundreds of arenas across the country. A bunch of guys with bad knees (in this case including my husband) and day jobs grabbed their hockey gear and headed to the local rink for one of the last few pickup games of the season.

The groups are always a varied mix of talents and personalities. In the case of my husband’s gang, the skill levels range from guys who started playing the game in their adult years all the way through to a guy who played Junior B with Dwayne Roloson (of the Oilers). At some point in their lives all of these guys probably played some road hockey while assuming the personas of their hockey heroes and simultaneously providing the audible play by play of the sportscaster as they weaved down the asphalt to zip a tennis ball into the top corner of a ratty old net. Now however, they all have jobs and responsibilities. They’ve been through ups and downs. Some married. Some divorced. All have experienced some of the losses that are the inevitable part of life as well as the highs that make them forget.

But on this night it is “Hockey Night In Mineola”. My husband’s crew has gone so far as to probably violate a bunch of copyrights and have fashioned themselves a set of home and away jerseys modeled after CBC’s flagship program. On other rinks the teams sometimes do something similar. More frequently, the teams are split into “Whites” and “Darks” with a significant rainbow of colours being loosely attached to each side, helping to give an extra excuse for those errant passes that wind up on the other team’s sticks.

The time slots are the ones nobody wants. Sometimes the crack of dawn but more often the last slot of the evening after all the kids’ leagues are finished for the night. And if the rinky is a good guy (which they all are), the last slot of the night often means an extra few minutes of ice time beyond what was paid for (if the legs can stand it).

If it’s the last night of the season like this night for my husband, or similarly for the first night of a new season, the benches will be packed. In mid season, the numbers vary widely as real life intrudes or as couches seem to get more comfortable. But everyone gets out for the last night of the year.

And the battle is just as fierce as any NHL playoff game. Except there’s no black eyes. And no bloody lips or broken fingers from blocked shots. And no pulling the goalie when you’re down by one with a minute to go. Ok. So maybe it’s not that fierce. But hey, back checking is over rated anyway. And who wants to limp into the office the next day after taking a slapshot to the back of the knee. From the poorly contested opening face-off to the final buzzer, the pace ebbs and flows and more energy is poured into deriding someone’s latest gaff than into improving one’s own play.

And when the game ends, the night continues down at the local. For my husband’s group, its wings and nachos at the Harp and if someone remembers to dig out the mini makeshift Stanley cup from years gone by, all will get to hoist it since no one knows what the score was anyway (its always 9-8 but who’s counting). And when the evening ends and the last ones straggle home, the gear gets put away to rot for the summer while golf clubs are dug out of the crawl space and mowers are tuned up for the yard work to come.

Are you wondering since this is a real estate blog, what does this have to do with real estate? Well nothing. And everything. Because this is what it means to be in a neighbourhood. It establishes bonds and links that survive even after circumstances take us to new neighbourhoods. It extends beyond the rink and over into the donut shop and the grocery store. It extends into the school fundraisers and the local businesses. It connects us all.

Not that you’d hear the hockey guys say so though.

For more on great neighbourhoods, vist my website.