Journey to Paradise

by: Patrice L. Leonard

There comes a time in everyone's life where they make a decision to take a journey. Some take spiritual journeys. Some prefer to journey to the land of sun and sand. No matter the destination, when that call comes it is undeniable, hard to resist. It takes hold like a pit bull and will not let go until the journey is complete. This is what happened to me. The journey I needed to take was to the most notable of hockey towns. My destination was Toronto. As a hockey writer in the Philly suburbs its hard to think outside our little hockey box. With a team on the rocks one would ask, "Why do you care?" The answer is simple. I love the game of hockey. To me there is none better. We are a close knit group, the hockey faithful. Don't try to sell us football, baseball, or basketball. That's what makes the hockey world so special. We are a small army. We are loyal to a fault. We will go out of our way to attend games in other cities because of a rich history to which no other sport can hold a candle. Number one city on that list for me was the city of Toronto. Others see Montreal or Edmonton as perfect hockey destinations and with good reason. I've been to Montreal. I toured the Forum before it became, oh blasphemy, an arcade. I got chills when I set foot on that tiny patch of Forum ice you were able to walk on. As great as that hockey town was, I just wasn't satisfied. So after about a decade of putting off what I knew was inevitable I packed up the family and made the pilgrimage north of the border.

We started our seven hour trek the day after Christmas. It felt like an eternity to me. We only had to drive through two states to get to the border but it was two states of absolutely nothing to look at. Going through Pennsylvania we got to see the Pocono Mountains. Beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to where we were headed. I can honestly say now when people ask me what lengths I went through to get to hockey nirvana that I drove through a mountain to get there. After over three hours on the Northeast Extension we finally passed into New York state. Half of our journey was complete. I knew that we would be driving past a few really great hockey towns like Rochester, Albany, Binghamton, and Syracuse. The scenery was slightly better in New York. Then, you have Buffalo. That's a different story for another day. I'd already been to Buffalo once, and have no desire to ever set foot in that city again, unless of course I want to go somewhere and do nothing. When we started seeing signs for Niagara Falls and the Canadian border I got those wonderful butterflies in my stomach. You know, the ones you get when you first fall in love and all you have to do is think about that person. I knew I was going to fall in love. I was already in love with the country and it was just a matter of a few more hours until I was in love with the city of Toronto, too.

Now, I admit my reason for this trip was pretty one dimensional. I was going strictly for the hockey atmosphere. A pretty dumb reason for a vacation to some I'm sure. But, the second I had my front tires in Canada and my back ones still in the States I knew I was there for all the right reasons. You know you're in the perfect place when the customs officer, while looking at your birth certificates and ID's, starts asking questions. I'm not talking about the usual, "Why are you here and for how long?", because he asked those. I'm talking about the questions about what jersey I was wearing. For the record I was wearing a Mike Richards #18 Flyers. He found out we were from Philly and he shook his head with understanding and simply stated, "They're having a rough year, eh?" Normally I would have gotten defensive about my team. Not that night. His words brought a smile to my face that was there for the next hour. We were only half in the country and already I had my first hockey conversation. Can it get better? I was dying to find out.

Once over the border we drove through several towns that I knew had a team, whether it was AHL, or Junior. Small towns like Sudbury and Guelph and larger towns like Hamilton were visions out my window. All of a sudden, there it was. It sneaks up on you before you are ready for it. One of the most amazing skylines takes my breath away. We were there, finally. Once we turned onto Yonge Street I was able to take more of it in. The city was all lit up for the holiday season and it sparkled with a newness that I had never seen before. I was coasting down the heart of my heaven, my sanctuary, my Toronto. After a long drive all you want to do is check into your hotel and collapse. I spent a long time out on the balcony just looking out over the city. Yonge Street looked like Times Square with it's moving billboards and flashing lights. The air was clean and crisp and I felt truly alive. Tomorrow could not come fast enough for me. I wanted to walk around and observe everything all at once without stopping. Alas, sleep overcame me and I had to give in.

When day finally broke the thoughts of the day's tour of the city overcame me. The kids were put safely in the day camp at the hotel and we set off to explore. Now, I admit, I am a hockey card junkie. I was sort of shocked at the very few card shops we found. I was able to pick up an autographed Peter Zezel from 1992. He was my original hockey "crush". The streets were alive with people coming and going. Some were tourists, some natives. Everyone was friendly. You don't see that here in the States. Nobody cares if you're alive let alone whether or not you're having a nice day. It's different up there. The city is clean. The air is fresh. It's not crowded and there's a Starbuck's on every corner, and for a coffee addict like myself that's heaven all by itself. There is also a difference in the sports fans. Hockey, obviously is the number one sport. If you looked around you saw alot of Yankees hats and Steelers jackets, too. In the U.S. you are "affiliated" with your political party and if you come across someone who doesn't agree with you a full blown argument will probably ensue. Here, you have loyalty to a team, or in my case, several teams. I did not feel uncomfortable wearing my Calgary Flames jersey around town here. All anyone had to say was, "They've got a nice team this year." or "Phaneuf is an animal." It just didn't matter, and that was refreshing. You could have a hockey conversation where you least expected it. I ran into a father and son on the elevator in our hotel who were from Kenora, Ontario. That just happens to be Mike Richards' home town. We chatted about what a great kid he was and how we all expect him to be the next captain of the Flyers.

We went through the week sightseeing and shopping and eating. The day I was most looking forward to was our visit to the Hockey Hall of Fame. I will admit I was a little stunned at having to walk through a food court to get there. I was prepared for it, but still looking around at all the fast food chains at it's entrance made me cringe. There should be a law about that. Put a food court in front of the Baseball Hall of Fame, but not these hallowed halls. The size of the building once inside was alot smaller than I expected for a sport with so much history. I walked around with a constant smile on my face, camera flashing away. I had to read every sign and look at every old puck, stick, helmet, and jersey. If they had jocks there I would have looked at those too. I wanted to save the Great Hall for last. And as luck would have it the alarm went off twice so I didn't have much of a choice. They finally let the public enter the GH and I couldn't get up those old, creaky, wooden steps fast enough. You walk in to this grand room with it's beautiful stained glass ceiling and it takes your breath away. All the trophies were in glass, except for one. The only one I really wanted to see. Lord Stanley's Cup was home, gleaming in the spot lights. I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, afraid to look at it straight on. I had to turn away. I'm not too ashamed to say that I turned away to wipe away the tears that crept up on me. I was emotionally overwhelmed. We walked around the GH looking at the different trophies and plaques but my mind kept wandering back to the Cup. While standing in line for pictures I looked around at the different people that were also waiting. They had jerseys and hats of just about any team you could think of. For just one instant we were all fans of the same entity. There was an eerie silence in that line. No one spoke, they just looked straight ahead. When it was my turn I walked up and hesitated. I wasn't sure if I was worthy of touching something that so many heroes had touched before. I quickly got over that and practically mauled it. It was like that car commercial when that man touched a car and every memory of the car's owner passes before his eyes. That's what if felt like to me. In my head I could see Steve Yzerman lifting it. I could see Wayne Gretzky raising it after his Oilers defeated my Flyers in game seven. I ran my fingers over the engraving of some of the names, most specifically the two Philadelphia teams that won it in the 1970's. My brief few moments with the Stanley Cup felt like a lifetime. It was what I traveled so far to see and touch. As I left the Great Hall, I looked back one last time thinking, "I'll never see that trophy in Philadelphia."

After my trip to the HOF, all else was icing on the cake. We were headed over to the Air Canada Centre to watch the Maple Leafs and the Sens do battle. It was Hockey Night in Canada, I was at a game in Toronto, and I was sitting in the most amazing arena I have ever been in. The ACC has quite frankly ruined me for all other hockey arenas. Every building in the NHL should be knocked down and rebuilt to resemble the Air Canada Centre. In the United States hockey is an afterthought when cities decide to build a new arena. Here, in Toronto you could tell that the Raptors where the afterthought. They probably won't admit that though. There was a huge foyer with interactive games and team photos and headshots the lead up to the front gates. Once you get through the gates if was a cornucopia of happiness. Everyone you passed wished you to enjoy the game, and they really meant it. The concession stands served real beer, not the watery stuff they serve here in the U.S. Even the upper level was comfortable and inviting with its own bar and soft, blue couches. Once in my seat I looked down at the ice and realized that they made sure that everyone had a good seat and it felt like the littlest, big arena. The energy was tangible. Every fan was there to watch the game. Not one person was seen chatting on their cell phones or talking about their grocery list to the person sitting next to them. When they dropped the puck it was all business. The Leafs lost that evening, but I was okay with that. For three hours I was a member of the Leafs nation, and it felt great. I was fortunate enough to have been present to watch one of my favorite teams play its biggest rival in a HNIC game in Toronto. What more could any hockey fan ask for?

We packed up to come home the very next morning. A certain degree of sadness took hold of me. I didn't know when I'd ever make it back. I wanted to stay. The drive home was long and dreadful. Crossing over the bridge and entering the United States made me misty eyed. I was leaving one of the most wonderful places I'd ever had the opportunity to go. As the border got smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror I looked ahead and once again saw Buffalo. Reality sank in and I realized that I was headed back toward a place where hockey didn't really matter. All of my wishing and hoping for that to change will do no good. In a country where football and baseball rule, our little sport can't stand up. They say baseball is America's sport, well then tell me where are all of the kids playing it in the parks and behind buildings, and in sand lots. Those baseball diamonds are empty. In Canada, on every pond, in every rink, kids fight for ice time. It is religion, and philosophy. The passion for Canada's game is strong and healthy. I saw this first hand and it made me appreciate the game that I love even more. It didn't matter how good you were as long as you had skates to lace up and a stick to put down on the ice. There is an honor in that. We, as Americans can only hope to embrace a passion for anything other than ourselves. It seems like such a simple thing, this sport played on ice. For many of us it holds a special place in ours hearts and minds. I will never forget my visit north of the border. This journey to me was like the journey some take to watch the Pope say Sunday Mass. Maybe, someday, the Vatican will have a hockey team.