Some things in life I was either born or trained not to believe until I’ve seen them through prescription lenses, touched them with ink-stained fingers or stepped over them in muddy size 12s.

C’mon, I’m not the only skeptic who still watches the tape of Keith Foulke flicking the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz nine times per week, just to make sure the Boston Red Sox really 86’d that bleedin’ curse.

Likewise, I wasn’t standing alone two years ago when I thought it was an asinine suggestion that Lewiston could house a successful hockey franchise in an attractive arena.

So I don’t mind saying nearly two seasons into this experiment that I was officially 80 percent wrong. And that other one-fifth? Well, if you’re sports-dependent and living within the invisible triangle that connects Rumford, Norway and Lewiston on a map, I figure that’s in your hands.

It’s time for you to buy tickets, jerseys, pucks, programs and parking space, and to do it consistently from September to April.

All the other pieces are in place. I’ve seen it. Watched the team. Combed the arena. Sat in a dozen different seats. Smelled the fresh paint.

Holdout is over

On Saturday night, and this is an embarrassing confession, I attended my first Lewiston Maineiacs game. Until then, I’d enjoyed a streak of 60-or-so home games without carrying a press pass and wielding a notebook or dangling a debit card and cradling a frosty beverage.

You’d think I’m allergic to steel girders and yellow caution tape or something, because my only previous contact with the born-again Colisee involved the sublime (a Christian rock concert) and ridiculous (trained elephants being followed by a stocky man carrying a shovel).

It’s all a matter of consistency, really. I try to avoid eating in new restaurants, because the service stinks and the food’s cold. Following that logic, I didn’t want to toast or trash the Yaks until they had a chance to iron out the product.

Now I can type this with authority and a straight face: If you aren’t actively supporting Lewiston’s endeavor in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, shame on you. Let’s start with the hockey itself. It’s phenomenal. The speed and skill are comparable to the Division I college game. As for the physical contact, well, put 15 pounds and a playoff beard on these players and it’d pass for the minor leagues.

Trying to paint the Colisee in understandable terms is a less exact science.

Men, think of it this way. You’ve just been divorced by Phyllis Diller, and all of a sudden you’re fielding phone calls from Jennifer Love Hewitt because she’s heard you’re available and irresistible.

The dump is dead

The old Central Maine Civic Center, and I’m being kind, was a vile, wretched, dilapidated, dark, musty, uninviting monument to atrophy that served fabulous French fries.

Today, you can actually park your vehicle and walk to the building without sacrificing a pair of shoes. You can sit in a comfortable chair that doesn’t look like it was painted during the Eisenhower administration. You can use a rest room that’s equipped with hot water, one that looks like the janitor actually uses some of that water to mop the floor more than once a year.

Best of all, you can invite your friends and relatives from Greater Portland without cowering in shame and feeding our community’s too-old inferiority complex.

It’s cost more than couch-cushion change and caused non-puckheads a fair share of heartburn, but Lewiston has provided us a top-shelf sports franchise in a fan-friendly building.

The rest is up to us.

Saturday night’s announced attendance of 2,792 appeared accurate and was impressive, given the mind-numbing cold and dire weather forecast. It was also slightly above the recent average and several hundred short of capacity.

OK, I know this is Lewiston-Auburn. I know “It’s Happening Here.” But not on a Saturday night or Sunday afternoon in January. So there are no valid excuses.

On those days, the Maineiacs are the only game in town. A darn good one, at that.

Wouldn’t say it if I hadn’t seen the slap shots and sawdust myself.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].