Hi. I’m Canadian. That means I’m morally obligated to love hockey, unless I want to be exiled, eh? Sadly, this love didn’t come to me until I was 13.
On October 4, 1991, I attended my first Vancouver Canucks game. That was also the San Jose Shark’s very first game – I still have my puck like the one above. My grandfather had four tickets, but they were not together. I sat with my dad for the first and second periods in the lower bowl while my brother sat with Grandpa in the upper seats; we switched for the third period.
It was unlike anything I had experienced in my life. Attending a game is not even remotely close to watching it on television. The atmosphere and excitement is electric. (Although, to be fair, I still find it somewhat difficult to follow along without the play-by-play.) The sights and sounds are overwhelming – well, at least for a 13-year old from the sticks they were.
I’ve been a Canucks fan ever since, and support the local hockey club whenever possible. I haven’t been to a Canucks game since I was 19 (14 long years ago), but I’d probably have to sell a kidney AND my liver to get good tickets now. Because of the family I’ve gotten myself into, I will also cheer for the Habs, but not when they’re playing Vancouver, obviously. And when it comes to the playoffs, if my team is practicing their golf swings, I’ll cheer for whichever Canadian teams are left.
I don’t know a lot about hockey: I just know that I love it, and that’s good enough for me.