It was winter 1982, my Uncle Ken picked me up in his Pontiac Trans Am and cruised out to Long Island for what would be my first hockey game. People sitting near us were dropping f-bombs at every whistle while guys on the ice were punching the living hell out of each other. Holy shit, where was I?! There was high-flying action, bone-crunching body-checks, organ music, beer spilling, crowds singing and lots of blue collar people rooting for their team as if nothing else mattered. From the moment I walked in and smelled the ice, I was hooked. This would be my religion. My happy place. Welcome back, hockey.