The hockey game is neck and neck between the Bruins and the Capitals, but my only concern is decorating my face with cotton candy. I become a maniacal candy-hybrid Santa Clause. Airy pink fluff, melting and beading against my face, my dad and his work friends cackle at my deranged creativity. I take bites of my sticky beard, sugary sweet dissolving fibers in my mouth. The stadium is a cacophony of smells, stale hoppy bitter beer spilled in sticky layers on the ground, the sour B.O. from the obese man below, the salty hot popcorn. For a kid on an adventure with his brother and his dad, this is probably the loudest one yet. The rattling of the plexiglass body checks, like angry timpani hits, the oooohs and aaaaahs of 20,000 die-hard fans, laughter and a thousand conversations I don’t understand, like a walled pond filled with squawking geese. The uncomfortable strangely angled seats wobble and the spring loaded support pushes me slightly forward even though I want to recline. I stand and sit as frequently as an old sunday congregation in a Catholic church, lifting my feet to pull them from the sticky film of spilled soda on the dirty grey concrete floor.