Ice Hockey has always been one of those sports that its die-hard fans insist you have to see in the flesh in order to truly appreciate.
I heard the same from AFL tragics prior to my first Magpies experience at the MCG. Let's just say I was more entertained by the fan interactions than the game itself. The humanity on display was worthy of an Attenborough documentary.
So, expectations in check, off I went to the Ice Hockey Classic at Auckland's Spark Arena on Friday night, where USA would square off with fearsome rivals Canada in a battle of ice supremacy etc.
Walking into Spark's foyer, the place was (predictably) littered with all manner of hockey jerseys. What better chance for NHL heads to parade their best vintage jersey in New Zealand and have them genuinely appreciated?
As an NBA 'collector', I get it. It's like their version of Rhythm & Vines.
The rink itself cut an impressive sight as I took to a seat, which I took special care to ensure was in close vicinity to pocket of a rowdy Canadians, because this was definitely a night for the Canucks - drunk Canucks, with the most Canadian accents you'll ever hear. It felt like I was surrounded by Terrances and Philips. But don't get me wrong, it was perfect. Ideal, even. It made for a great vibe. I was surprised how full the stadium was as they warmed into the player introductions.
One of the clear-cut highlights of the evening was the American production, which included the triumvirate of crowd cams - Dance, Bongo and Kiss. I'd always wondered how they'd translate to a Kiwi audience. Would the traditionally shy New Zealand punters just shrink into their seats and break into nervous laughter?
The result may have been skewed by the number of North Americans, but the people were into it. Well into it. Take note, Breakers.
Frankly, I was petrified, all exposed on my lonesome in the front tier like that. I had a move chambered, a classic '90s throwback. Mercifully, I never had to use it.
The most drunken Canadian from the group behind me was one of the first up on the Jumbotron and unleashed a double bird-flip with startling quickness. It was a huge moment for them.
The players took to the ice under a flurry of flashing lights - firstly USA to 'Enter Sandman', then Canada to the strains of 'Welcome to the Jungle'. It got me thinking as to who got the better roll of the dice there. What a heavyweight clash of rock anthems! It's almost impossible to separate them they're so evenly matched.
Of course there were actual anthems to be sung, one man covering both, and we were into the ice jousting.
Immediately I was floored by the skating abilities of these guys. The speed. The flair. The ability to change directions. The backwards skating! Add to that the skills and dexterity on show with those enormous sticks, it makes for captivating viewing.
Put this product alongside the brand of hockey Kiwis care about most, there's no comparison. Let's face it, field hockey is utterly stale - a poor man's version of its ice-based cousin.
Canada was on the scoreboard first, meaning one half of my Canadian mates (buddies?) behind me had to retrieve a fresh load of beverages. Cheers went up.
Then the guy in front of me slightly wobbled and slightly spilled a beer on his way back from the bar, and the Canadians pounced with some vintage peer pressure. Down went the vessel in one.
The guy in front of me explained that "those are just the rules" to his stunned female companions. USA scored two quick goals. It was all go.
One thing I wasn't prepared for - the cold. Damn it was cold. It was almost like I was sitting directly above an enormous slab of ice. I cursed myself internally for such an obvious sartorial miscue.
The only player I was familiar with across both sides was Zenon Konopka. He was featured in the Netflix documentary Ice Guardians, which profiled some of the NHL's most renowned "thugs". If anyone was going to get feisty in an exhibition game it was going to be the guy nicknamed "The Destroyer".
Sure enough he was the chief protagonist in several skirmishes and even nabbed himself a goal. Konopka was my new favourite ice hockey player.
One melee resulted in a whole gaggle of players collapsing to the ice in a heap. The American PA announcer immediately compared it to a rugby scrum. It was a moment he'd been waiting for all night.
Then my main man, Konopka, was dealt a penalty for slashing and naturally my mind drifted back to the great G'n'R vs Metallica song debate. I'm still torn.
With the first period (third) done, I repositioned from my spot at rink-level behind the goal to a bird's-eye horizontal view, which was definitely superior, although it was decidedly less raucous and I soon began to miss the drunken Canadians.
My mate Logan - the biggest ice hockey fiend Aotearoa has ever produced - told me the most famous player to make the trip over was Peter Holland, a forward from the New York Rangers. Cue Holland opening the second period with a move that looked born of a NHL'18 cheat code, going coast to coast and scything through no less than 15 defenders, breaking blades, making a deft final split-second tweak to score. Holland was my new favourite ice hockey player.
That was the beauty of the game. It's all so fluid and rhythmic that you often find yourself mesmerised by the action, the way it evolves so quickly from a scramble to players swooping behind their net and launching into another weaving assault on the net. It's entrancing.
By this stage I could no longer feel my toes. It was time to leave.
Kiss cam reappeared as I made my out, shuffling through brilliantly awkward friend-zonings and pairings of strangers. Then down-in-one American guy flashed up and proceeded to crush a beer he had specially holstered. He was da real MVP.
Ice hockey. Two thumbs up. Wellington and Queenstown, get amongst it.
Oh, and enough with the complaints about not being able to see the puck. It's 2018. Every television is high-definition and at least 40 inches wide.
Newshub.
