The pronouncement from the provincial government earlier this month that OK'd the cramming-to-capacity of Ontario’s hockey havens, was enthusiastically received and terrifically timed to these venues’ home-openers this fall, and to the election next spring.
In the echo of this “Return-to-the-Rinks!” decree, I reminisced warmly as per Orillia’s late, quirky Community Centre, duct-taped together at Penetang and Brant, with those triangular-seat oddities in its corners. Conversely, I’ve nothing but disdain for cold, damp, Brian Orser Arena, where on dark, minus-20, winter mornings, one goes outside to warm up.
I unleashed my own lockdowned fervor for the live game with a flourish, heading to Peterborough for the Sudbury Wolves versus the Petes on Oct. 14, then on to Penetanguishene on Oct. 15 for Orillia’s Terriers versus the Kings. I tactically tackled some overdue chores on Saturday (Oct. 16) with an industriousness to be noticed, setting up nicely Hockey Night in Canada’s doubleheader later that night.
So, on a seemingly late summer’s day, but for the flaming fall colours, I glided down and around highways 12, and then 7, sailing on through the Kawarthas right into my seat at the PMC.
The Petes in purple and the Wolves in blue, kaleidoscoped coolly around the ice to Aerosmith’s Dream On, an appropriately upbeat contemplation, anticipating the game’s return. Sure enough, the first such contest here in 19 months commenced with 2:39 of non-stop action.
I was surprised that it was the sounds of the game that first caught my attention – sticks and pucks, and helmets too, cracking sharply high up off the hard glass; the thump of bodies banged into the harder boards; and, that super, soft “WHUMP” of a slapshot off a goalie’s butterflied pad.
One of the Petes is blindsided by a Wolve (Wolf?), and a spirited fight follows. Better yet, some confusion with the penalties, allows the pound from Zombie Nation (think Boston Bruins’ goal song), some extended play, enhancing further the game’s sound.
The fans’ pent-up demand for in-person hockey is recognized robustly by the skaters’ pent-up supply of in-your-face play. The appreciative applause is up an octave, I’d say, and. then it’s west to Penetang for a game the next day.
The possibility of rain in Friday’s forecast tells me it’s a foregone conclusion for Fesserton, through which I’ve never traveled without it. For sure, there’s some Bermuda Triangle-like phenomenon there, as, in an instant, the sun can suddenly set, as the temperature plummets while the rain falls in sheets and the road inexplicably narrows.
As such, I head out early relishing thoughts of the Jr. C rivalry. I recall earlier tilts with much milling about outside the rink beforehand, and a ‘King’ on the inside, regally adorned in a gold crown and purple robe, extolling His junior kings to conquer the mongrels from the near-east.
Alas, when I arrive, … there’s no line-up, and the game-night officials outnumber myself and two others, five-to-three. I slowly orbit the ice – it seems as if the King’s been deposed – encountering only a smattering of twos here and threes there, most of them head-down, phone-up teens, and a senior midway through an unnaturally long yawn.
In an instant of panic, I wonder if I’ve driven 45 minutes through the Fesserton Flood to view a gaggle of guys who’ve rented the rink. The atmosphere’s so sadly sobering, at the completion of my 360, I depart for a draft to address the imbalance.
I head down Maria to Edward and then Main, fortunately finding an Irish Pub on my way. However, it’s an odd one without music that renders the banter and chatter just loud, not lively. Despite this, and the CFL football, not European soccer, on every TV, the place is nearly full, and is filling, in stark contrast to the rink.
I raise the matter of the music to the barmaid, opining too, that the blackness of the red-brown Kilkenny that I’ve ordered, has me guessing that it’s Guinness, but I rapidly regret it.
“Rachel,” I discern, is the sole person working. She’s serving five at the bar, with six tables on the go. She’s screening people at the door for COVID, mixing drinks, taking orders, running food, clearing tables, processing bills, and, enduring my inanity.
Still, the half-inch foam topping Rachel’s perfectly poured pints is sufficiently frothy to shave with. Her short plaid skirt and tiny white-T, reveal the sinewy strength of a mixed-martial-artisan, and all the requisite tattoos.
As she kicks closed a fridge door, she calls out calmly to a newcomer, while replacing my draft with a smile that’s a tad tighter, though had she broken my nose, I’d have forgiven her.
Back at the Penetang Arena, cozier than most, the aroma of sweat wafts well with the game long underway, though it has proven far more tamer than I would have expected. When the Terriers (5-0) win it later in OT, the remaining few lethargically leave.
As I slosh through the puddles back to my truck, I think better of a last-call pint at the pub. While noting the three-point game of the Terriers' Broderick Black, I determine decidedly that Rachel’s controlled fury’s the first star of the night.
John Epstein is a former, 25-year Orillia business owner who left southern Ontario for the north years ago, and has never been back. He is now a freelance writer, whose column appears monthly in OrilliaMatters.
