Erik Eckel

The low-pressure warning appeared 45 miles south of Toledo. With nothing but flat gray, seemingly sad landscape surrounding us, I pulled to the highway’s shoulder.

The sedan’s climate control set to 70, we’d been comfortable traveling in jeans and t-shirts. Cooler air, though, nipped our arms and faces when we’d stopped at Dunkin’ outside Cincinnati for jelly-filled donuts, bacon-and-egg sandwiches and coffee. But I still wasn’t prepared when, almost 200 miles due north, a stinging cold mist enveloped me upon leaving the Honda’s protective cocoon to conduct a quick walk-around.

Hoping the drop in temperature was to blame, I erred on the side of safety. An optimist with anxiety, I hope for the best but often fear the worst. On first glance all four tires looked good. Quick palm-around-the-tire inspections, however, confirmed a subtly protruding nail head on the right front.

Shit.

Moderate speed subsequently ensued until we reached the next truck stop. There I added maybe eight pounds of air while regretting wearing just a thin cotton shirt. Returning to the car provided welcome relief from the spitting rain and blowing wind.

One thing was sure. Driving one-handed drinking carry-out coffee with the other, I told my son this was the trip I wanted to make. Working 12 years to grow an IT consulting business, frequently driving to client sites and responding to customer calls on evenings and weekends, takes a toll. Time for other activities slips so slowly into the margins that you don’t realize just how pervasive the loss is. That is, until you try to do something other than work and the continuous calls, texts and emails blow up your phone.

Certainly, Andrew was ready for a break. The monotony of a 13-year-old’s school routine is almost universal. Anything for an escape from the mundane.

I remember the difficulties at that age. And it’s no longer the 1970s and ‘80s. Social media is everywhere. Kids are continuously inundated with images of others living and fulfilling their dreams, however improbable the influencers’ successes might be. Yet, earning millions, partying in sprawling McMansions and driving Lamborghinis begins to appear the norm, when it’s definitively not.

Kids must still develop their own identity and determine their own strengths and weaknesses. That’s always been difficult, but now they must do so amidst crazily competing signals from unending peer pressure, social media postings and reality TV programming that undermine their confidence and further complicate this infamously confusing stage of life.

Maybe it used to be awesome just to share a sporting experience with your dad and be the center of his attention for a night. Such experiences now, however, are often more. They’re also a release from those the pressures and demands of modern life.

It’s not just an escape but a respite in which a kid can enjoy forbidden food and snacks famous for their sugar, salt and fat combinations and share a memorable event with their dad, amidst no expectations on their behalf and in which the normal rules—eating healthy, getting to bed on time, using proper language and the like—temporarily don’t apply. It’s a period fathers and sons can come together and in which disagreements, mistakes and conflicts can be forgiven and forgotten. The occasions can prove an important reset.

This trip proved such for me, although it still triggered some unexpected emotions. So often I’d made the trip as a passenger with my dad driving, his presence placing him in charge and relieving me of responsibilities and burdens for the duration of the trip. But here I was the dad now.

The drive from Kentucky through Ohio, one I’d made numerous times under a variety of circumstances, largely seems a chore, anymore. This is especially true in inclement weather and on brisk, gray winter days. But on this occasion I remember telling my son there was nothing I’d rather be doing than traveling to Detroit to share seeing the Red Wings and its intriguing cast of players.

We wanted to see, in person, Stanley Cup ring bearer and NHL All-Star goalie Jimmy Howard, Niklas Kronwall, the feared hip-checking Swedish defensemen with a Stanley Cup on his resume and a long history of devastating reverse checks, Dylan Larkin, the former University of Michigan All-Big Ten First Teamer, hometown hero and young upstart center, up-and-coming winger Tyler Bertuzzi, a 22-year-old All-Star gamer who skates with abandon and an unkempt mane of hair flowing in his turbulent wake and Stanley Cup winner and playoff MVP Henrik Zetterberg.

Even given other dreams—ascend Alpe d’Huez on a high-end road bike, spend a day at the Tate Gallery, have coffee on an Italian piazza with a view of Lake Como or attend dinner with a favorite author—this experience was truly my most-desired. I think the statement hit home, as we’d taken a few vacations, if brief, and stolen other getaways, but the excitement we both described on this trip was surprisingly impressive and genuine. There was obvious intrigue and fulfillment knowing we were attending our first NHL game together.

Of course, hours of monotonous driving can prove tiresome. Red Wings and NASCAR podcasts accompanied us on the journey as we worked our way north, first on I-71 and then I-75. When my son fell asleep I caught up on an audiobook I’d been listening to: Wayne Coffee’s The Boys of Winter: The Untold Story of a Coach, a Dream and the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey Team. Particularly intriguing for me has always been the fact Mike Eruzione—who scored the US’ winning goal in that Miracle on Ice game with Al Michaels’ famous “Do You Believe in Miracles!” call—played for the Toledo Goaldiggers when I was attending grade school in the Glass Capital of the World. Those players, while larger-than-life in so many ways, were also real dudes who lived in town and ate at restaurants where I went. How improbable that seemed to a kid in the ‘70s in Northwestern Ohio.

Upon reaching my hometown, we checked into the hotel first. Room key secured and luggage safely stowed, we drove past the old high school where my father played football with Jim Leyland and Jerry Glanville who’d later manage the Detroit Tigers to a World Series championship and take an NFL team to the playoffs, respectively.

The low-tire warning appearing again, I pulled into an automotive service center whose address was on a street named for my family. Returning to your hometown always stirs compelling emotions. The sensation is particularly compelling when a decades-old family rift left a nauseating split in its wake and multiple popular commercial boulevards are named for the offending party. But one must go to the repair shop where one finds it, not where one wishes.

Patiently I listened to the technician describe the need for an appointment. Then I respectfully explained our predicament: the need to be in Detroit in a few hours. The service staff took pity and agreed to assist. They took the car to a service bay. We watched decidedly droll mid-day TV in the customer waiting area while taking advantage of the facilities but not trusting the complimentary beverage center. We always decline gas station sushi, as they say.

They called our name about an hour later. They’d removed the wheel and nail, plugged the subsequent hole and, conscientiously I naively thought but likely due to liability exposure, actually re-balanced the Michelin. And they gave me the keys. No bill.

“Happy to help,” the technician said. “Enjoy the trip with your son. Let’s go Red Wings!”

Regardless, I’ve learned the importance of paying it forward. As an IT professional with tens of thousands of hours in the field assisting customers, small gestures (such as treating me to a fish sandwich platter on a busy day during Lent when I needed to work straight through lunch) always made me feel appreciated and part of the same team. So I slipped the mechanic a Jackson.

Walking to the car—a modest-appearing four-door family sedan that, equipped with a rare-for-its-class three-liter six-cylinder engine, made it one of the quickest-accelerating production automobiles in North America—I drew my son’s attention to the five-foot-tall reflectors lining the parking lot.

“You know what those are?”

“Guides to help you drive?”

“No,” I said using the key fob to unlock his door. “Those are guides for snow removal. They indicate where the pavement is. That’s why they’re several feet tall. That’s how much snow they receive, here.”

If he was incredulous, he wasn’t after I pointed to the 15- to 20-feet high snow-and-ice mounds piled in a nearby grocer’s parking lot. They’d still be there the first week of April. Just 300 miles north but what a difference compared to what we were accustomed.

With hours to spare before heading another 60 miles up I-75, I drove my son to the first ice cream shop that came to Perrysburg when I was a kid in the ‘70s. Then it was a Baskin-Robbins featuring 31 flavors. Now it operates as Nedley’s Ice Cream & Coffee Café, even though the neon sign out front reads Hershey’s Ice Cream. Long gone are the Dr. Music, where my junior high classmates and I bought all our Pink Floyd, Journey and Styx albums, and Radio Shack, where we were all members of the battery-of-the-month club and played our first games of computer chess on their TRS-80 demonstrator.

Always eager to break with tradition, my son chose chocolate-covered bacon instead of ice cream. He insisted I try it with him.

The taste sensation, at first, was pleasant. The outer milk chocolate layer was inviting and satisfying, especially as the creamy cocoa butter fat broke down on the tongue. But then the salty, smoky and gamy bacon flavor arrives just in time to really confuse the taste buds.

We decided the novelty was just that: unusual. Andrew described the concoction as tasting like something the dog ate, made out with, then spit back out. The coffee, however, was pretty good.

When it was time, we picked up my cousin sporting a number 19 Yzerman jersey—Andrew and I bore number 35 Howard sweaters—and headed north out of town. The drive to Detroit was uneventful, if not for all the refineries, auto factories and then abandoned homes and buildings you pass on the way, but it gave us a chance to catch up on events, share family news and compare notes on our shared profession.

By the time we made it to Hockeytown the sun had set and the city was alight. The Ambassador Bridge’s silhouette and iconic bold, sans-serif red-lit lettering are always striking—the 7,500-feet long span is the busiest international border crossing in North America—and the Canadian lights across the Detroit River are always intriguing. How odd it is, as a Midwesterner, to see another country across an expanse of water. But Michiganders are used to it. It’s no big deal for them. They see it every day. They take a lot of this—including their Tigers, Pistons, Lions and Wings teams—for granted, as proximity naturally leads to familiarity.

But we were impressed, especially because the Red Wings play in Little Caesar’s Arena. The facility is state-of-the-art and holds 19,500 fans. Designed by HOK, which specializes in urban facility design and construction and is known for such projects as La Guardia’s transformative remodel and the National Air and Space Museum in D.C., the sports complex serves as the flagship of a $2.1-billion entertainment district that’s helping Detroit recover from numerous industrial, economic and government failures of previous decades. In addition to the sports arena, the eight-story-tall building also incorporates offices, stores, restaurants, bars and an outdoor plaza. It’s a showcase.

Figuring we were driving six hours just to get there, I splurged for good seats with excellent visibility and unobstructed views in the lower level. While the cheap seats might be fine for a baseball game, the same is not true, in my experience, for a hockey tilt.

After overcoming the challenge of finding a proper parking space, we were surprised again when exiting the car as to just how biting the cold wind is after sweeping around the Great Lakes. Queuing through the metal detectors is a right of passage we completed, then we entered the glitzy new arena with its many splendid amenities amidst attractive exposed brick, purposefully planned plaza and inviting and modern eateries.

In the continual struggle to encourage folks to actually battle the elements and step away from their 65-inch flat-panel TVs, 72-degree family rooms and convenient refrigerators, professional sports teams offer an unending stream of promotions to attract crowds. There are bobbleheads of popular stars, posters, shirts, calendars, ball caps and, as on this night, even miniature resin models of the team’s arena. Fathers throughout the facility can then be seen toting these tchotchkes all evening, including when ordering pizza and Cokes, slathering onions and mustard on hot dogs and trying to sip from a beer while carrying their kids’ winter jackets folded around their own forearms.

As we typically do whenever traveling to another NHL franchise, we first toured the facility. We prefer arriving a little early. It’s nice to gain our bearings, understand how the building is laid out, learn where the restrooms and exits are and locate likely restaurants or concession stands.

Then we find our seats, which almost always momentarily fill us with a sense of wonder. The massive scoreboards and displays, powerful sound system, meticulously planned lighting, view of the immaculately groomed rink and pure whiteness beneath the chill ice all combine to mesmerize and awe.

The electricity and energy become palpable when the teams take the ice, typically to deafening, pumping, bombastic music and blinding pyrotechnics. The players’ entrances always begin with these world-class athletes aggressively hitting the ice and accelerating into a zesty, frenzied and intimidating rotation around their team’s zone.

Soon you hear the tactile crack of stick blades contacting pucks and the arresting kinetic high-frequency snap of a puck violently impacting the glass behind the goal. Occasionally a puck finding a crossbar or post rings out, a unique sound that, when it occurs mid game, always ignites a frenzy among the crowd.

Tension mounts as you sit through pregame festivities, upcoming event announcements, a small parade of dignitaries, the presentation of colors and then the anthems. In the NHL there are often two: Ô Canada, with its wonderful crescendo finish, in addition to The Star-Spangled Banner, that itself ends with its own question and obligatory rowdy applause response.

Following rousing rock music—often an energetic AC/DC lick or something similar—the puck drops and the game begins. The speed with which the players move and their skate blades audibly carving the ice are surprising—it all seems to be happening too impossibly fast. The same is true for the pace and accuracy of their passes, typically spot on, even when crossing 100-feet of ice straight onto the tape of their teammate’s CCM, Bauer or Warrior stick blade. The violence with which players collide and pound one another into the boards, which surge and shudder with the impact, can also be felt in your chest as if transferred through the arena’s concrete foundation. Certainly, that’s the sensation when a Kahlenberg Industries alarm horn designed for oceangoing vessels sounds at 120 deafening decibels to celebrate the home team scoring a goal.

The cacophony is so great we’ve learned to take soft collapsible ear plugs. The game sounds, ranting of the crowd and intermission entertainment are so much more pleasant slightly muted.

A six-dollar Little Caesar’s Super Slice with pepperoni tastes better consumed with the game in play. And the fountain Cokes—served in souvenir cups that will ultimately hold nuts and bolts in the garage and other trinkets in the basement—are always a little more effervescent than usual, at a sporting event.

As for the game, as things often do in life, the match proved contentious. The game ended with just two-tenths of a second remaining in overtime when Detroit’s overwhelmed goaltender—our favorite, Jimmy Howard—let in a last gasp effort by the Sabres’ Marco Scandella, a defenseman, no less.

The game did have its moments, though. The Red Wings looked to be out of the game with just two minutes remaining in the third quarter down one goal. But with the goalie pulled in desperation for an extra skater, left wing Justin Abdelkader flicked a rebound into the opposing net to tie the game and force overtime with less than 90 seconds to play. Robin Lehner, the talented Sabres goaltender and an interesting and complex character himself—he once left a game due to a panic attack, an increasingly common experience with which so many of us are familiar—made 35 saves to Howard’s 27. As Wings captain and center Henrik Zetterberg said summarizing the match, “This was a tough one.”

But the evening was far from over for us. Exiting the arena, sharing that universal denouement in which everyone seemingly begins exiting that fantasy period where reality is suspended during an event, thoughts turn to the car ride home, getting to bed and preparing for the next day’s school and work responsibilities.

Yet, the souvenir vendors remain open, taking advantage of captive audiences streaming to the exits to complete opportunistic last-minute sales. Everything—golf balls, t-shirts, jackets, pennants, caps, playing cards, bottle openers and posters—boast the same repeating hues of red and white, the Red Wings script-styled font and the famous wing-wheeled logo, possibly the finest in all of sports worldwide. After perusing the wares Andrew chose two licensed purchases, a miniature replica team-issued goalie helmet (forty dollars) and a commemorative hockey puck (six dollars).

I still remember the first sporting event my father took me to when I was six: a Mud Hens game played at Lucas County Stadium. Toledo, playing in the International League, hosted the Syracuse Chiefs. The promotional giveaway that night was a full-size Louisville Slugger baseball bat, one I used into my mid-teens. We sat on the first base side in pleasant weather.

Later we’d attend more events together, including Bowling Green Falcons hockey (defenseman Ken Morrow would go on to win an Olympic Gold Medal in the 1982 Winter Olympics with Eruzione, as well as four Stanley Cups), baseball (with future World Series champion and MVP and Cy Young winner Orel Hershiser pitching) and football (including to-be Super Bowl champion Phil Villapiano playing on the offensive line) games. There were Louisville Bats (including future Cy Young winner Bartolo Colón), Cincinnati Reds (Rose, Bench, Concepcion, Foster, Griffey, Morgan, Perez—possibly the greatest lineup ever, sorry ‘58 Yankees fans), Chicago White Sox and Cleveland Indians baseball matches and a couple NASCAR races at Michigan’s two-mile speedway. But nothing really quite equals that first game you share with your dad.

Now I’m honoring the tradition. In Michigan’s late-night brisk cold, we retrieve the car. The first few moments, before the seat warmers and climate controls heat up, we all shiver while happy to at least be out of the wind that just seems to blow more wickedly in such close proximity to Lakes St. Clair and Erie.

Next there’s the dark interstate drive back to Toledo that includes passages through hardened and even entirely abandoned neighborhoods and seemingly desolate areas, the family car safely securing the precious cargo and souvenirs tucked inside. Around midnight we deposit our cousin back home, where tomorrow’s family and business obligations presumably await, say our good-byes and head to the sleepy hotel.

Except, Andrew’s gained a second wind. I’ve long joked the kid’s good for 500 miles on just a bag of pork rinds and a Mountain Dew. He’s a born traveler who takes related hardships in stride. That said, he’s ready for a proper meal, now, despite the time.

Options prove few around midnight in a small conservative town of 25,000. A Fricker’s is the only place open. It’s a hot wings, cold beer and 20-TVs-tuned-to-sports kind of place. Only a few tables are occupied, but we take advantage of the opportunity to order a basket of onion straws with Frickity Dippin’ Sauce (760 calories), Frick Burgers with all the fixings (890 calories each) and Brew City Fries (390 calories each).

While we eat, a Los Angeles Kings hockey game (playing on the West Coast three hours behind us here in the Eastern Time Zone) finishes on several of the TVs we can see while other monitors stream the 2018 Winter Olympics.

Next to us three men and a woman occupy a four top. Two of the men begin arguing so forcefully I plan how I’ll step in—I’m six-four, 220 at the time—to calmly separate them. They’re all clearly drunk. When the table becomes quiet I think “Uh-oh, here we go,” but I’m surprised. The angriest dude breaks the silence saying he’s got to go, needs to be at work early in the morning. And the guy with whom he’s been disagreeing with most? He purposefully picks up the dude’s check, says he’ll pay the guy’s tab and give him a lift home. Suddenly, just like that, all is forgiven.

Then it’s back to the hotel where a nonstop 29-degree chill winter wind picks up additional moisture from Lake Erie and whistles steadily through the seal of our room’s window. Nothing we do, neither stuffing a towel against the window, playing nature sounds on the room’s TV nor closing the blackout shade, quiets the insistent sprite we simply choose to accept before we fall blissfully asleep.