Nothing quite compares to your first time...

All sports fans have allegiances. It's part of the magic of sport, especially if it begins in one's childhood, when our heroes are imagined to be infallible icons of strength and power. The sweater they wear, the colour, the logo, the history of the club for which they play and for which we cheer become branded into us. And we become lifelong fans.
I grew up for much of my life in Calgary, and with that childhood I developed a loyalty to the Flames. I was only four when they hoisted the Stanley Cup, and Lanny MacDonald's moustache only reminds me of pictures I have seen along the way. Growing up, the star that I remember was Theoren Fleury, flying around the ice with such speed that he seemed to be out of control.
There was Valeri Bure, Phil Housley, and Jarome Iginla. There were the dark days of the nineties and early 2000s. And then there was the arrival of some third-string San Jose goaltender named Miikka Kiprusoff.
In short, I am a fan.
Imagine, then, my elation at being sent to the Saddledome to cover a game against Minnesota last month, with orders to seek out Dustin Boyd in the dressing room afterwards.
The Flames dressing room. The very heart of Mecca, hidden behind dauntingly large red glossy doors amidst the cold concrete of the Saddledome's belly. Perhaps the Flames don't have the depth of history as Original Six teams, but the names that have graced this room are nothing to sneeze at: Nieuwendyk. MacInnis. MacDonald. Suter. Vernon. Fleury. Iginla.
That last name was on my mind as I scanned the surprisingly large room. The media far outnumbered the players, and my eyes searched for the centres of the various scrums taking place. There was Eric Nystrom, engulfed in microphones after scoring the winning goal shorthanded. Mike Cammalleri laughed with a couple reporters as he sat in his stall. To my right, a diminutive figure wearing black tights and unlaced neon green Nike cross trainers gave a quiet interview to a lone reporter. There I was, less than three metres away from Miikka Kiprusoff. I don't know why I expected him to be bigger. I wanted to go push aside the suit with the tape recorder and tell Kipper that I'll never forget his duels against Khabibulin in the 2004 Finals, or his awkward fight against Vokoun earlier that season, or his countless head-shaking saves that look so spectacularly easy.
But I re-focus and remember that I am there as a professional journalist, not a fan. I find Boyd and do the interview. Afterwards, I go back into the dressing room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Iginla laughing or Conroy babbling or Bertuzzi hulking. But they are not there.
Instead I walk slowly around the room, trying to memorize the moment, that feeling of being in an NHL dressing room for the first time. It will never happen again; next time it will be old hat. Eventually, out of excuses for still being there, I walk out past the television cameras, through the glossy red doors and past the press gate, where tiny figures in tiny red sweaters are waiting in hopes of catching a glimpse of their heroes.