There’s an old man sitting in a seat just off center ice five or six rows back. He’s got the team jersey, the team hat, a bucket of popcorn and a gadget which, when you shake it vigorously, makes a hell of a lot of noise.

The old man is sitting alone but in the seat next to him is a framed photo of a pretty older woman smiling out of the pixels for all eternity. This is the gentleman’s date, I believe, and he secured a ticket just for her. You can invent your own back story, if you’d like, but I think what’s going on here is pretty clear. It’s sweet and sad and just the right amount of unusual. This is a man who doesn’t believe in the line “’til death do us part.”

A few rows down, there’s a man with a boy standing near the visitors’ bench. The boy’s hands are full. He’s got the big foam finger, the foam puck, the team pennant, a poster with a few scribbles on it, a novelty hockey stick he will later use to slap plastic fruit across the kitchen floor (that’s what I’d do, anyway) and, in case he gets hungry from holding it all, a couple of hot dogs in paper holders.

His dad, meanwhile, is clutching only a game program, which is rolled into a tube as if he’s about to discipline a puppy. Dad is wearing a team jersey and beneath it, you can see an unknotted tie, as if he blew out of the office an hour ago with just enough time to swoop up his kid and head to the rink.

Dad doesn’t need the program. He’s got it memorized, I think. “You see the really big guy warming up the goalie? He won’t be here long. He’ll be in the NHL before Christmas and we can watch him on TV. And see No. 9 over there? He broke his leg last year and everybody thought his career was over. You watch, though, I’m betting he’s going to lead the league in scoring. Now, keep your eye on the coach, boy. He like fast changes, likes to keep those young legs fresh. You got enough to eat? You haven’t touched your hot dogs.”

The boy, perhaps 8 years old, is distracted somewhat by the girls that keep walking by. Ah, youth. The girls are older, maybe even real old, like high school age. Their job appears to be walking back and forth all night, no matter what’s happening on the ice. The hoop earrings, the makeup, the expensive jeans and leather coats … Dad has little hope of keeping the boy’s attention on the game, that’s for true. These girls have spent hours putting on their game faces. An hour on makeup, two hours on hair, another good chunk of the afternoon trying on and discarding clothes until they have just the right look.

Then they’ll parade back and forth with a casual air. What, these old rags? I just dug them out of the closet and threw them on.

The hard-core fans almost never have the best seats. Why is that? There’s a bank of these fans sitting high up in the bleachers, deep within the visiting team’s zone. If action happens on the other end; they’ll have to stand on the backs of their chairs to see it. If they’re bothered by this, it doesn’t show. These four men and two women are all decked out. They probably spent as much time getting ready as the pretty girls marching back and forth below.

They’ve got the team jerseys, of course. That’s standard. They also took the time to paint each other’s faces and a few of the boys just might have messages scrawled across their chests — cold paint on chilly skin, to be unveiled late in the final period if the situation calls for it.

A few seats away, a young man sits with his pretty girlfriend. He’s got his arm around her shoulders and he’s muttering nonstop into her ear. “The player can’t enter the opposing team’s zone ahead of the puck,” he tells her. “If he does, it’s offsides. You get that, right? I’ll explain icing a little later. Say, are you cold? You want my coat?”

The pretty girlfriend nods, says she understands, and, no, she doesn’t need a coat. She’s just fine. In her lap sits her smartphone, taunting her with its many untold secrets, but she doesn’t dare touch it just yet. Her beau really wants her to love this game the way he does and, darn it, she’s going to try her hardest.

Smiling, listening to him explain the many nuances of the power play, she wonders if he will one day propose to her at a hockey game. She’d be just fine with that.

Exactly four rows down, this scene is reversed. There’s a young lady who knows hockey inside and out. She’s patiently explaining the facets of the game to her blinking boyfriend. He’s getting it, maybe, but slowly. He’s always been more of a tech guy.

Look at the police officers standing in every doorway and at each end of the rink. They’re in full uniform, hands crossed at their belts, radios crackling from their lapels. They’re gazing out on the action with steely eyes. They expect no trouble, these cops, but by God, they’re ready if trouble comes along.

The fact is, most of the officers love the game and the crowds that turn out for it. When the chief offered up this special detail, they jumped on the opportunity at once. Imagine it! Getting paid to watch hockey!

A third of the people who turn out to watch the game are die-hard fans whose eyes never leave the ice. They spot the perfect pass before it happens and scream over minor infractions the refs don’t catch. For three periods, you can’t talk to them unless it is about the finer points of the game. They are in the zone and they will remain there until the final buzzer sounds.

Another third are casual fans. They’ll watch the game in snatches, looking up for the hard hits and cheering when the gloves come off. The rest of their focus is on the crowds: the pretty girls and cute guys, the interesting people doing interesting things, the unique dynamic of 3,000 people crowded into one place.

The final third are there to accommodate others. The young lady hoping to marry her favorite hockey fan — she’s already thinking about wing recipes she can serve up during big games at home. The little boy who wants to be just like his old man someday. The older lady in the picture frame who watched a hundred games with her husband in life and who will watch a hundred more now that she’s gone.

Hockey belongs in Lewiston. It belongs in every city and town north of New Jersey (it doesn’t belong in Nashville or Dallas), but in Lewiston most of all. When I was a kid in Waterville slapping around a puck on the ice, Lewiston was regarded as hockey mecca, a place where the players were extra huge and the passes super slick. Lewiston was a true-blue hockey town and going without seems unnatural.

Hockey is back, for this one season, anyway, and I’ll be at every game I can get to. I’m the guy who pays for a seat but then wanders all over the place in search of a better spot.

What, these old rags? I just dug these out of the closet.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer and a die-hard fashionista. Email him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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