Reason I Love Hockey #21

In honor of my last Reason I Love Hockey, I’m going to do a little mini-series of my favorite things about watching live hockey, including some specific aspects of HSBC. I’m totally unorganized with this whole list (could you tell?) so I have no idea how long this mini-series will be, but I’ll just keep writing about things until I run out. That philosophy hasn’t failed me yet.

HSBC Salted Peanuts

Hey, did you think that was an empty threat all the way back in June?! Honestly, I feel silly admitting this as a reason I love hockey, but not silly enough to not admit it at all. The truth is, half my anticipation when entering HSBC to see a game was caused by the salted peanuts I knew were right inside the door. Once I had that little paper bag in hand, there was no way the night could be a waste. I think peanuts are the perfect food for the hockey spectator. They’re small and portable—not cumbersome like hotdogs or nachos or the like—but they also require a certain amount of involvement. Peanuts break the mindless path from bag to mouth well traveled by handfuls of popcorn, adding the extra steps of unshelling. With my attention decidedly on the game, I find my fingers like having something to do, and once I settle into a kind of peanut-shelling rhythm my viewing experience is complete. Interestingly, hockey and peanuts relate symbiotically in this regard, because I’ve found that without something as enthralling as hockey to distract my brain I’m way too frustrated by peanut shells to bother with them. But at the arena, the shells are definitely the best part. My dad would always buy his own bag of regular, unsalted peanuts, which as far as I’m concerned is blasphemy. I mean, that’s free salt he’s passing up! What’s the point of even having a shell if you’re not going to suck all the salt off it first? (I’m beginning to see why I was never on the Jumbotron during games—my peanut-consumption method isn’t really the sort of thing Miss Manners would condone.) And then, of course, the shells are a marker, a tangible indicator, a tiny mound of accomplishment. Whenever I left my seat after the game, I would look back at the thin layer of broken shells coating the floor (I felt bad about it until my mom told me that local convicts clean the arena after games) and let out a nostalgic sigh. Yes, I was here.