The First Game

I remember going to my first ever St. Louis Blues game. The experience was magical; going to the old Arena with Dad to watch my heroes play hockey.

Dad made the whole experience special. We arrived early to get a parking spot on the street a couple of blocks south of the Arena. We walked in through what was in my mind a grand foyer on the north side of the building and made our way through the crowds of people milling in the concourse. Dad walked me through the concourse toward center ice so we could enter the seating bowl right at the center ice line. It was beautiful! The Blues logo looked so bold and shiny on the freshly resurfaced ice.

I stood watching in amazement as the Blues and the Minnesota North Stars took to the ice for warm ups.

One of the memories that stands out most clearly in my mind was the sounds of hockey.

The distinct crack of the puck hitting the stick as the players passed the puck around as they skated.

The sharp smacking sound of the stick propelling the puck toward the net as they shot.

The harsh, cutting sound of their skates on the ice as they accelerated, turned and stopped.

These were all new sounds to me. As a mini-squirt on the St. Louis Bruins Amateur Hockey Club our passes were silent; as they rarely made it all the way to the person we were passing it to without being slowed to a stop by the snow built up on the ice surface. Our shots mere taps of the puck toward the goal. Our skate blades making no sound as we shuffled our way around on the ice.

I was amazed at the sounds of St. Louis Blues Hockey and the game had not even started! I stared; mesmerized by the players seemingly effortless skating, stickhandling, passing and shooting. This was so much better than I had ever imagined after previously only seeing Blues Hockey on our old black and white television or from my vantage point as a small boy in mostly second hand hockey equipment on the ice at Steinberg Rink in Forest Park.

We stood and watched the entire warm up from our vantage point at center ice; my feet refusing to move until the last player had left the ice, my anticipation for the real game to begin growing with each passing moment. We watched the Zamboni begin its task of resurfacing the ice before leaving the seating bowl.

Dad stopped at the concession stand to buy a pretzel and soda for us to share as we headed to our seats on the end of the upper bowl. The crowd slowly filled the Old Barn in anticipation of the puck drop. I could hardly contain myself as the Blues entered the ice from the tunnel in the corner just to our left.

The Blues were ready to play hockey and I was there!!!

I can't say that I remember much of anything specific about that particular game; the hockey action memories  lumped in and blurred with many of the later games I attended, but I do remember the most important part - I was there.