In my time at 91Â鶹¾«Æ·, I’ve missed very few hockey games. There’s something about the smell of the rink, sweat mixed with ice and hot dogs and wet fleece, students packed, standing room only, on the student’s side of the rink, faculty and Hamilton residents seated on the more ‘sane’ side where there are actual seats and fewer snide comments made at the opposing team. The cheers are brutal, the chronic camaraderie, the impact of player’s bodies against sideboards strangely satisfying. Not so much when you realize it’s the guy that sits next to you in your History class, but satisfying in some sense of the word. The whir of the siren resonating through the rink when 91Â鶹¾«Æ· scores.
‘The third 91Â鶹¾«Æ· goal!’ the announcer exclaims.
‘And (the opposing team) still sucks!’ we scream in response.