South Florida’s sports teams, like its bad drivers, are shared by three counties – but there are degrees of affiliation. The Heat are Miami’s team, playing downtown on Biscayne Blvd. The Panthers, on the other hand, play in Sunrise and practice in Holiday Park, in a beautiful facility that on playoff nights became a surrogate arena, its restaurant and rink awash with fans – some homegrown, others nostalgic northern transplants. Broward is, inarguably, South Florida’s hockey heartland (as incongruous as that title may sound). So it was entirely fitting – in an even greater height-of-absurdity way – that the team whose home ice is next to the Everglades paraded the Stanley Cup on Fort Lauderdale Beach.
I was surprised to see a small line outside Greek Islands last night – at 6 pm on a Tuesday in summer? – and nothing but empty tables in the back room.
“It’s closed for a private reception,” the hostess told us, as she directed us to the line.
“The Panthers?” I said jokingly.
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t say anything.”
But everyone knew, or sensed, that something was up, especially as black SUVs pulled in and deposited tall, well-built men in beards. Our friend Joe arrived – in a FLORIDA HOCKEY T-shirt, appropriately – and we took an outside table, one of the last, under covering and next to the window. On the other side of the glass a tub of bottles – Stella, Mythos, Panna – sat atop a table.
Word came that the team would arrive in full around 7:30. I told everyone to eat slowly – not a problem for me since my surgery. More rock-solid young men appeared, often accompanied by attractive young women. We had difficulty identifying the former.
“Maybe if they pinned somebody against the boards,” Joe said. “Oh yea, that’s Reinhart.”
Through the glass we could see what looked like a cocktail party for the genetically blessed. Eventually, the tub of bottles was removed, and the table set up for dinner. A couple sat down; the man wore a checked shirt, his long brown hair pulled back to produce what looked like seams on his temples. He had a sharp nose and a somewhat soulful expression.
“I think that’s Bobrovsky,” Joe said. And indeed it was. Hania – who had already told me that bóbr in Polish means “beaver” – googled and announced that the woman was Olga, his wife of 13 years. They were inches away from us, separated only by a plate of glass.
I resolved not to look at him. I tried to appear like an ordinary citizen enjoying his gyro, which I was until this feast of champions materialized out of nowhere. I did watch, out of the corner of my eye, when teammates, or wives of teammates, came up to greet him; often he’d half rise – he’s a tall man – for a warm embrace. Then he’d return to his wife and his dinner. It was strange to think that this man sitting quietly on the other side of the glass had, 20 hours earlier, been sprawled on the ice a few miles away in desperate attempts to keep a puck from entering a net. In Game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals. He sat with the sage contentment of a man who had experienced not only triumph, but a brush with its opposite.
Around 8 o’clock another black SUV pulled into the parking lot, and quickly became the focus of attention for the tables of al fresco diners and the small band in Panthers jerseys that had assembled. The trunk was opened and another giant, in T-shirt and shorts, delicately extricated the desired hardware from the back. Then Aleksander Barkov carried the Stanley Cup into the dining room. “It doesn’t get any lighter,” he said to no one in particular.
The restaurant erupted in cheers. He lingered a while in the front room, as people took pictures, then he carried the Cup to the players who had won it. At first, it was filled – probably with beer – and drunk from by teammates and their wives. Then it was cleaned, and filled again – this time with juice perhaps – and given to children. It was the NHL’s version of Holy Communion, the high (tall) priests dipping the 34-pound cup so the young could partake of its nectar.
Finally, it was placed on a bar chair for endless photos avec: Greek Islands staff – our favorite waitress Monika giving the V sign – police officers, friends. Now it was the people’s time to celebrate. I had always heard about the powerful pull that the Stanley Cup has, and here it was visible, and also explainable. Because it's so generously shared with the public, the public gets not only to rejoice in the victory (over and over) but to feel a small part of it – to have a moment with the glittering prize that will not be forgotten. And the team’s choice of locales for the Cup – the Elbo Room, Ann’s Florist & Coffee Bar, Greek Islands Taverna – is making that feeling of connection even more real.
And the Panthers even more loved.
Saturday I needed a birthday card so I got in the car and did what I’ve done for the last 30 some years: I drove down Las Olas to Grand Central Stationery. To my surprise, it was closed, with no sign in the window.
“I think they’re going out of business,” a passerby said, pointing out the bare display window.
This morning I went online. There was no mention of closing on the store’s website, but in the store’s profile the words “Temporarily Closed” were highlighted in red.
The “Temporarily” is giving me hope, but not a lot. I am generally a fan of the downtown development; more people means more restaurants and cafes, and the high rises they live in give us more shade. But they also raise the rents, pushing out small businesses like specialty card shops. I fear that Las Olas will become like Atlantic Avenue in Delray, a street people come to only to eat.
Yesterday evening I drove down to Miami Beach to attend the launch party for the second issue of a magazine I have an essay in. The crowd was predominantly young and female; most people I talked to grew up in Miami or Miami Beach. One young woman, a childhood friend of the editor, asked where I lived.
“Fort Lauderdale,” I said. “Have you ever been there?”
Living in Fort Lauderdale now reminds me of Robert Benchley's telegram back to New York after arriving in Venice: "Streets full of water. Please advise."
Yesterday I went to the frame shop to pick up a picture. A “NEVER SURRENDER” poster of Donald Trump lay on the counter, left by the previous customer.
“People are bringing Trump things in all the time,” the woman behind the counter said. “They ask if I can frame them, and I say, ‘Yes, but it will cost you double.’
“I’m just kidding,” she said.