My First NWHL Game

Molly Engstrom (Image by the Collinsville Press)

After pining for almost an entire season to see an NWHL game in person, by some serendipitous force, the NWHL decided that it would come to me. Last February, Danbury Ice Arena announced that it would host a game between the Whale and the Beauts on the dawn of the playoffs, a race to the Isobel Cup.

Walking into the arena, breathing in a gust of cold air, I found myself open-mouthed in awe to see a circle of the Beauts kicking around a soccer ball in a pre-game tradition. These girls were my age, if not younger, and just seeing them keep a ball in the air, bobbing off of each others' feet, left me speechless. They were celebrities to me. My boyfriend, Ian, amused, managed to gently prod me forward and shake me from my stupor.

It would only happen again. I scanned the merchandise table as it was being set up with tee shirts boasting the logo of the league and hats knit with team colors and again found myself dumbfounded.

"Jenny Scrivens." I said to Ian, transfixed.

He laughed at me. "What?"

"Jenny Scrivens. Right there. At the merch table."

The tall woman was busy unpacking a cardboard box of shirts, neatly pressing them onto a table. Shoulder-length, platinum-blonde hair spilling over the sleeve of her black coat, she looked up with blue eyes and I shook Ian's shoulder gently.

"That's her!" I whisper-hissed, unable to stop myself from bouncing and gripping at his sleeve.

"That's her," he murmured in response.

Last season, Jenny Scrivens was the second-string goaltender for the New York Riveters and worked as PR for the league. Her husband, Ben Scrivens, was just acquired by my favorite NHL team, the Montreal Canadiens, as a backup goalie.

Ian and I stood, him in a Canadiens jersey, me in my Riveters jersey, completely frozen as Jenny Scrivens walked away from the table, heels clicking against the tiled ground. She caught our gaze, stopped, smiled, and said, casually, "I like your jerseys, guys!"

Thankfully, I held back the first thing that came to mind, which was "I like you!" and managed to figure out a more appropriate response of "Thank you." As soon as she was out of sight, my hands found Ian's sleeve again and was furiously yanking.

When the time came to find seats, Ian and I found an end seat right in the middle of the arena, behind the Beauts' bench. I should also mention that there were dogs in the arena.

Yes, dogs. Sitting in the audience. Dunkin' Donuts had just become a sponsor for the NWHL, and their idea of a marketing ploy for a hockey game was called "Donuts and Dogs," where anyone who brought a leashed dog would get in for free, and more than half of the crowd did—even the players. To the left of our seats were stairs leading down to the locker rooms, and every so often, a freckled Dalmatian would come into view, raspy barks vibrating through the air.

As corny as it sounds, game between the Whale and the Beauts was the best game of hockey that I have seen on the ice of Danbury Ice Arena. The speed of these players was unreal; every play seemed to go end-to-end, without faltering. If you looked at the standings, you'd think the Whale would have had this game. They were the second-best team in the league, pulling just slightly behind the Pride, and comfortably ahead of the Beauts, who had barely taken third place.

The third period finished with a tied score of 2-2 leading into a 5 minute period of 4-on-4 overtime. It was seamless, with only one stoppage of play. The Beauts were on a powerplay carried over from the last period and dominating the Whale's offensive zone. Set up in an overload formation, two defensemen sat on the blue line acting as points that shoot long distance, cracking slap shots at the net while three forwards attempt to redirect the puck with their bodies or sticks.

On a lucky bounce at the end of the powerplay, the Whale were on the attack, rushing through the neutral zone and careening toward goalie Brianne McLaughlin. A shot on goal riled the crowd, setting the dogs off. Barks and whines echoed "Let's go Whale!" cheers as the rebound was snatched up on the stick of Molly Engstrom of the Whale, who clapped a one-timer into the air, past McLaughlin, and into the net.

After the game, the members of the Whale were seated at a table, signing jerseys and tee shirts. I hadn't bought anything, and didn't feel right offering my rival team jersey to be signed by them, so I stood back and watched for a little while. One little girl in full hockey uniform—helmet and skates included, was patiently waiting her turn. I couldn't stop smiling after I saw her. She was what this league was built for.

That day, I walked out to my car with the tired feeling you get from spending an entire day at an amusement park. The happy, almost-drunk happy. The I-used-all-of-my-energy-screaming-happy.