My Own Stairway To Heaven.

Long before I even shared season tickets I was always trying to figure out a way to get myself into Maple Leaf Gardens to watch Leaf games for free. I remember the one time my friend and I wanted to watch a Saturday night Montreal and Toronto game. We were probably both thirteen maybe fourteen years old and we had no money for tickets. I had heard that the Gardens were always looking for kids to work as vendors and sell snacks before the game and during the intermissions.

We took the subway down and arrived early, after a few questions we were both hired.

After explaining what we had to do and the whole procedure of being a vendor we were each given a pretty large wicker basket with Cokes, popcorn, peanuts and candy bars inside to sell. Right away my friend and I ditched our baskets under a stairwell and we then ran up to the very narrow end reds standing room area. We just remained standing there while waiting for the game to start thinking we were both so smart because we had just gotten ourselves in to watch a Saturday night Leafs and Habs game for free.

Within a few minutes a man wearing a suit with a Walkie-Talkie who worked at the Gardens asked us what we were doing there. We simply told him that we were there reserving our standing room spot for the game.

BUSTED!!

The Gardens had not yet even opened to the public and we were both escorted with a kick to the arse out the back door onto Wood Street. By the time I got home that night I had already missed most of the game.

Oh well I guess we weren't as smart as I thought we were.

Wood Street is the backstreet right behind Maple Leaf Gardens. On days during the hockey season when the Leafs play at home, coaches and a few players would always park their cars along the Gardens back wall during morning practice. By early afternoon on game days, large mobile studio trucks took over the entire area for almost the complete length just outside the Gardens north end wall. There were electrical cables strewn all along the sidewalk covered by large plywood boards.

On Saturday nights the CBC Hockey Night In Canada trucks occupied the entire space. For most weeknight games it would usually be a contracted company that would provide the video feed for the likes of TSN or an American network.

The networks would all have their own commentators and play-by-play crews inside the Gardens. The game cameras, video replays and interviews were controlled outside on Wood Street by an army of technicians flipping switches inside the mobile studios. On warmer nights in the fall or spring you could glance inside through an open door and view the chaotic mission control like atmosphere.

The majority of times when I went to the Gardens I entered through the Wood Street west entrance. For me the Wood Street west doors were by far the easiest, fastest and less crowded way to enter the Gardens on game night.

Once inside the narrow escalators were always crowded and were only easily accessible for fans entering through the main entrance on Carlton Street. I would have had to walk down the length of the Gardens weaving my way through the gold sections cramped corridor. The very narrow corridor was always crowded with fans just milling about or staring up at all the old vintage black and white photos on the walls. I would then have to slowly inch my way onto two single step escalators to be slowly transported up to my grey sections destination. This little jaunt would easily add ten minutes before I could even expect to be in my seat or close to it. Instead, I always ran up the six flights of stairs just inside the Wood Street west doors. I never walked; I always ran taking two and sometimes three steps at a time.

On many occasions I clocked the time from when I entered inside the Gardens until I was actually at my seat. On a good night it would take me less than a minute. I always likened my climb up those wide concrete staircases to my grey seat at the Gardens as my own little stairway to heaven. My heart would be pounding once I reached my seat. Depending on the time when I arrived, I would catch my breath watching the pregame skate.

I loved watching the pregame warmups with the rock music blaring loudly. It would fascinate me watching how effortlessly the players seemed to shoot the puck. I always said that if I was ever granted three wishes from a genie inside a bottle, one of my wishes would be able to shoot a puck like the pros. Players at both ends all shooting pucks past a hapless goalie standing in the net like a pylon. Many pucks hitting the crossbars and deflecting into the seats only to be scooped up by young fans eager to have a real game memento. Many kids standing around the benches would be leaning over the boards trying to catch a player’s attention hoping to get a signature on their replica white home jerseys.

Seriously, on many nights at the Gardens the pregame warmups were far more entertaining than the actual game itself.

Once the horn blew the players gradually exited to their dressing rooms. A crew would come out and pick up the pucks and scrape along the dashers at the bottom of the boards while the Zamboni would flood the ice. At this time I would usually go back out into the corridor to buy a coffee which was always at its freshest prior to the game. Long-time fans knew never to buy a Gardens hot dog until well into the first intermission. Rumour had it that any hot dogs that were not sold from a previous game or event were just heated up again and sold early at the next game.

The northwest stairwells also provided me the opportunity to watch Don Cherry on Coaches Corner during the first intermission on Saturday nights. I would run down the stairs to the main level and watch the little television suspended from the ceiling just inside the Wood Street west doors. By far this area was the least crowded spot to watch Coaches Corner at the Gardens. Other than watching Coaches Corner, I never really made any effort to watch the intermissions even though there were televisions on all the levels. The corridors were just too crowded, noisy and there would be so many fans just trying to get into the washrooms. Guys lucky enough just to walk in take a quick piss then walk out. Women unlucky to be waiting in a line up stretching well into the corridor sometime lasting the complete fifteen minute intermission.

There would be so many fans trying to watch the intermissions with their heads kinked awkwardly upward glaring at the small televisions. Only those standing right under them were able to hear anything. Then there would be the other fans lining up to use the payphones stationed right under the loud televisions. All of them with the phone in one ear and a finger in the other while struggling to carry on a conversation.

Concession line ups were always long with workers using scraps of cardboard to tally up totals. I never saw a cash register or even a calculator to make any of their jobs a little easier. After decades the Ontario laws were finally changed and the Gardens was now able to sell beer and glasses of wine during the games. Naturally that just added to the congestion as mobile beer carts were now strategically positioned in the already crowded corridors.

For me intermissions at the Gardens were best spent just sitting in my seat and standing up for an occasional stretch. For the most part I would listen to the Gardens organist Jimmy Holmstrom while talking with whoever was sitting beside me that night.

After the games I always walked down my stairway to heaven and out the same Wood Street west doors that I had entered. Habitually I always walked right across the street to avoid being hit by a water balloon. Water balloons would occasionally be thrown by guests from the balconies of the Carlton Inn which was right beside the Gardens. Although water balloons were not a real threat it happened maybe a handful of times over the years, but I do remember being hit just once and I did get soaking wet.

For that reason I always crossed Wood Street when I walked outside the Gardens and I always ran up my stairway to heaven when I walked inside the Gardens.