Hockey Heroes and Petty Crime

I’m very excited for the start of hockey season! Hockey has been close to religion for me since I was a kid growing up on Park Avenue.

Growing up in West Hempstead in the early 1980s, the New York Islanders were larger than life. For a brief period, my father worked in a bank, and his secretary was Al Arbour’s daughter. Al coached the Islanders to four Stanley Cups and is a member of the Hockey Hall of Fame. I was nine when Bobby Nystrom scored THE OVERTIME GOAL OF ALL OVERTIME GOALS against the Flyers, bringing Long Island its first Stanley Cup. To say I idolized those players would be a massive understatement. Manhattan had its ticker-tape parades. We had our champions parading down Hempstead Turnpike.

My friends and I became major roller hockey players. We played on Wren Court, by John and Billy’s house, across from a senior citizen named Anne. She confiscated our pucks whenever we shot them into her yard. One time, I body-checked our friend Mike through her wooden fence, and we all tried to enter the Witness Protection Program.

Whenever a car came down the street, we screamed “CAR!” and skated over to move the goal out of the road as the driver slowed down. We also yelled “CAR!” when John was on a breakaway, just to make him stop. Once he realized there was no car, he tried to impale us with his hockey stick. We also became proficient at throwing our sticks to knock the puck away just before he could score on an empty net. That didn’t improve his mood.

None of us were elegant skaters. Our hockey sticks were for passing, shooting, and helping us stay upright. John and Billy had proper hockey skates—big, thick things built to withstand a puck that felt like concrete hitting your feet at 100 miles per hour. We didn’t have a lot of money at my house. I played hockey in figure style-roller skates. Cheap ones! While my friends were getting Mike Bossy and Bryan Trottier jerseys, mine was Dorothy Hamill. My wheels would randomly fall off while I was skating hard, and my friends would laugh as I wiped out, trying not to fall through Anne’s fence. I’ll never forget the Christmas my grandmother gave me a pair of hockey skates in my size. It’s still one of my favorite gifts ever.

Eventually, we learned that the Islanders practiced at the Nassau Coliseum on game-day mornings. The visiting team skated afterward. We could wait outside the Coliseum for the Islanders’ autographs, then walk over to the Marriott to meet the visiting players. We were hobnobbing with our Islanders, then getting autographs from Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux.

Now I’m going to discuss crime. I believe we’re beyond the statute of limitations.

Back then, there was one security guard when the Islanders practiced at the Coliseum. He may have fought in the War of 1812 before getting into security. Quite often, he would fall asleep or go to the bathroom. That was our cue to enter the building and head straight for the seats to watch practice. An entire arena, with an audience of three: John, Billy, and me.

Eventually, we got friendly with some of the players and walked in with them. Like we owned the place. They gave us pucks and broken hockey sticks.

We joined the Bryan Trottier Fan Club. Once a year, Bryan met with us at a catering hall in Uniondale. He eventually opened a skating rink on Long Island and let us skate there. I can say I’ve skated—and fallen—with a Hall of Famer.

Many years later, my wife at the time discovered that her cousin had become a part owner of the Islanders. One night, we sat with him in the owner’s box. I didn’t have to sneak past a security guard. Even with an owner’s invitation, I kept looking around for an old guard seeking retribution.

I have plenty of stories. Hockey fans know the names that I met: Bryan Trottier, Denis Potvin, Billy Smith, Clark Gillies, Bobby Nystrom. I’ve left out my friends’ last names, just in case there’s no statute of limitations on sneaking into hockey practices.

The names have changed, and the Islanders no longer play at the Nassau Coliseum. Today’s arena security teams would probably tase me and arrest me if I tried to sneak into practice. But those memories will stay with me for a lifetime.

Whenever I drive down Wren Court, I’m reminded of our hockey games. The last time was in February. I hit a patch of black ice and came within inches of crashing through Anne’s fence.