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Ahh, the lifelong adventures of growing up a true blue fan.

She looped her arm through Michael’s and they took the street’s slight jog to the left, passing the arthouse cinema tucked beneath The Maples apartment building and its neighbour, a twenty-storey hotel, and then…

…there it was!

The yellow-brick façade forged during the Great Depression. The vertical Art Deco windows and setback corners. The famous marquee declaring TONIGHT NHL HOCKEY and the loyal congregation buzzing beneath its canopy, clustering around the three main lobby entrances facing Carlton Street—the glass gatekeepers to countless memories and historical celebrations.

Maple Leaf Gardens was a hockey shrine like no other.

Finally! Georgie’s heart thumped wildly. “I love summer and long sunny days, but⁠—”

“The best season is hockey season,” said Michael, finishing her sentence.

They overtook a pair of search lights, their luminous beams sweeping the encroaching darkness, and squeezed through the throng loitering on the arena’s doorstep. Michael caught a door before it swung closed and held it open for a slow-moving crew of pensioners, fans in their seventies who could remember happier days when Toronto ruled the old six-team league.

Georgie followed them inside the jam-packed lobby where the unmistakable scent of fresh paint, popcorn, and possibilities earned a smile. She shared a delighted glance with Michael.

“There’s no place like home!” he shouted over the perennial refrains of “Get yer programs here!”, which reverberated beneath the lobby’s low, arched ceiling. While functional and lacking in polished marble or decorative tiles, the foyer was not without its charms.

“It’s exactly how we left it in April.” Georgie studied the familiar black and white photo displays hung above shoulder height on the blue and white-painted cinder block walls, each one a snapshot of past glories, including the 1966-67 Cup-winning Leafs. Here, nostalgia was an easy pill to swallow, temporarily soothing the sting of recent on-ice disappointments.

But reminiscence also brought with it a major side effect: it made Georgie ravenous for success.

“Although”—she cleared her throat as they veered right, toward the rhythmic clicks of the waist-high blue turnstiles leading to the arena’s east side—“some new photos with the Cup wouldn’t go amiss.”

“From your lips to Cliff Fletcher’s ears,” said Michael.

Conforming to a superstitious ritual they’d observed for the past seventeen seasons, he queued behind Georgie at the turnstile they always used, managed by a craggy Gardens vet who had toiled at the rink for forty-plus years.

She handed the blue-blazer-clad employee her ticket. “Hi, Ronnie!”

His wrinkle-etched face lit up. “’Ello, Georgie! Welcome back!” He tore away the bottom half and gave her back the remaining stub.

“Thanks! Great to see you.” With a crush of people waiting to get in, she couldn’t linger to chat, so she pushed through the turnstile and ambled toward the refreshment stand on her left, curious if the long-standing menu of hot dogs, popcorn, and peanuts had welcomed any new appetizing additions since spring.

Joining her, Michael pocketed his ticket stub in his jeans. “Craving popcorn and orange?” he smirked.

Georgie laughed at the inside joke. Stuffing your face with popcorn and slurping fizzy orange pop, only to end up feeling barfy before the final whistle of the second period was practically a rite of passage for a kid visiting the Gardens. “Some memories are best forgotten.”

Michael’s gaze followed a kid holding an orange soft drink. “You can say that again.”

Continuing on, they swept past the glass case of the largest souvenir stand on the ground floor. Wide-eyed youngsters begged their parents for pucks and Georgie’s childhood favourite, the long-necked, blue plastic horns famous for their mournful baritone wail and the ability to temporarily impair the hearing of everyone within a three-seat radius.

She glanced down the main east corridor. Leading to the team benches and the Leafs dressing room, the hallway also granted access to the fabled gold boxes—the closest, most expensive seats where the usherettes worked.

One of the perks of being a long-standing ticket holder: counting many of the game night staff as friends.

Michael slowed his pace. “Wanna say hi to Stef and Andrea?”

“Sure!”

They jagged to their left, taking a detour down a short passageway where a familiar waft of chilly air and Jimmy Holstrom’s interpretation of “Owner of a Lonely Heart” on the organ welcomed their rink-side arrival. As she eyed the familiar bowl of colourful seats, a buoyant breath caught in Georgie’s chest. Hello, old friend! She smiled through her exhale, admiring the shiny white ice, its surface pristine behind the glass-topped boards. Oh, how I’ve missed this.

“Gi, c’mon,” Michael urged. He headed left again, storming the aisle that cut in front of the gold boxes and behind the row of rail seats hugging the boards. Each box contained seven rows of seats and was raised just high enough so the usherettes and ice cream sellers passing in front wouldn’t block the fans’ view of the action.

Clasping the camera hanging from her neck, Georgie nodded hello to the usherette supervising box 5 in the Leafs end and trailed after Michael. Down the slight dip behind the goal judge’s chair and back up again, they reached box 12 in the southwest golds where an usherette dressed in a white blouse, dark blue skirt, and matching blazer showed a young boy and his father to their seats.

Sweeping her silky black bob from her face, she spotted Michael and Georgie, and her dark eyes widened. “Oh my god!” She skipped down the gold-painted cement steps, throwing her arms open.