The crowd went wild. People were cheering and banging their seats and across the arena, on the other side of the shiny white ice, they were singing a song he had never heard before. It was the loudest, most exciting thing he had ever experienced.
The announcer came on over the loudspeakers to tell the audience what the young boy already knew. The captain, Number 3, had scored a goal for the good guys.
He flipped his notepad open and jotted down the captain's name and time of the goal in the left hand column of the simple chart he had created before the game.
The whistle echoed through the cavernous arena and the action continued. He watched as the tiny players below skated back and forth up and down the rink. He cheered as two players collided with a jarring crunch, and then he cheered some more as the gloves hit the ice and the two players sorted out their differences.
When the final whistle blew to announce the end of the game, he was a little dismayed that his team had lost, but he looked up into the smiling face of his father and knew that it would be okay.
There would be another game next week. He took his father's hand and they joined the exodus.
It had been a good game. It had been a great night.
"Thanks dad," he said, and that was enough.
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