"Why is a puck called a puck? Because dirty little bastard was taken."
New Jersey Devils goalie Martin Brodeur.
Four years old, at her first hockey game. A bucket of mini-donuts, a new Colorado Eagles jersey and a premium seat in the third row. A big "We're number one" finger to wave. Mom, Grandma and Grandpa at her side.
"Let's go, Eagles."
Where else is the invitation to clap your hands, stomp your feet and yell at the top of your lungs encouraged, rather than hushed? Where else but right along the glass can the speed, complexity and physicality of hockey not just be appreciated but witnessed virtually first hand. An intimate setting, in an intimately small minor-league venue watching highly-skilled athletes compete for their shot at the National Hockey League. A family event where the vendor gave the first-game fan a free strawberry smoothie.
"Let's go, Eagles."
I would have bet real money we would be on the way home before the game concluded. Instead, we were still cheering with the crowd - the Eagles winning on a classically deft goal late in the third period - as we filed out of the building into the cold Northern Colorado winter air.
"Whose house? Our house!"
The dreams that blossom from this field are not just for athletic glory.
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