Travel Blog

At 7:30 yesterday morning I drove down Las Olas and across the bridge, where police cars blocked access to A1A. I turned right, along with everyone else, and found a parking spot near the International Swimming Hall of Fame. Water and ice.

A good crowd was already gathered outside the Elbo Room, many of them in red Panthers jerseys. One woman wore a cap topped with a seated doll wearing a Panthers jersey and roller skates. One young man, with a flower tattoo in front of his ear, sported a black cap with the words “Vamos Gatos” printed on the side.

A little before nine a police car, siren wailing, came through the blockade, followed by a golf cart filled with large men in beards. Aleksander Barkov sat in the back, in a shirt with green palm trees and pink flamingos, the Stanley Cup between his legs. Immediately the cart was swarmed by people trying to touch the cup. Eventually, Barkov lifted it and carried it through the side entrance of the Elbo Room, where it soon appeared on the balcony, causing the crowd below to erupt. Various players took turns lifting it – to rapturous cheers – and then, after everyone had had a go, a couple of them filled it with beer that they poured onto the crowd. This also got cheers, and was repeated again and again. In the intervals, champagne was squirted out onto the adoring fans, while the famous bar’s logo, a platinum blonde in a red bikini, looked on in tumbling delight.

Chants rose and fell: “Back-to-back!” “MVP!” “Bob-by! Bob-by! Bob-by!” “We want beer!” One man started a “Thank you, Panthers!” cry that for some reason didn’t catch on. A few songs were sung, including the National Anthem and, oddly, “Country Roads.”

“Bobrovsky’s not here,” a young man next to me said. “He’s home with his family. He’s like that basketball player, Jokic. As soon as the game’s over, he’s gone.”

“It’s the young ones who are here,” his friend said. “They’ve probably been up all night partying.”

I walked across A1A  and talked to a young father who moved here two years ago from Toronto. He had been rooting for the Maple Leafs, he said, but he admired the Panthers – enough to bring his son to see them at the Elbo Room. I asked how he found South Floridians compared to Canadians, and he said that people have been great, especially in the hockey league that his son plays in. As they headed off, I saw the name “Tkachuk” written across the back of the young boy’s jersey.

I found a shady seat on the seawall, next to a woman from Poland who now lives in Galt Ocean Mile. “I was watching on TV,” she said, “and I thought: Why don’t I drive down there?” We wanted to see them take the cup into the ocean, as they had last year, but by 11 there was no sign of them ever leaving the Elbo Room.

I drove to Archibald’s for a takeaway quiche and on the drive home, listening to an oldies station, heard Connie Francis sing “Where the Boys Are.” It was an almost scripted moment, though I wondered if any of the players would have been aware of the connection.