That’s me in my own Heritage Classic, a long time ago. It’s what these outdoor games are supposed to represent – the millions of us who skated outdoors, froze our feet, scored winning goals in the seventh game of the Stanley Cup, and came in when mom called because supper was getting cold or it was just getting too dark to see.
We all had our Heritage Classic, although maybe only the dog and sister were there to witness it instead of thousands, and twenty-five cents allowance was slightly different than eight million dollars. We lost pucks in snowbanks, practiced turning left and right, worked on raising the puck, and fell and got back up and fell again.
The feet and toes tingled and prickled, wet socks hung by the heater, snot dripped into the soup, and sticks and pucks waited in the porch for the next Heritage Classic, when once again we’d score the winning goal of the Stanley Cup final.