Troy Mattila
It’s just a pile of bricks with a couple slabs of ice, really. Probably an expensive pile of bricks. But we cannot separate ourselves from the places that shape our character.
I spent what feels like every day of my childhood at Riverview Ice House. You’d pull over the trolley tracks and park, overlooking the river. If you’d get there early enough, you could catch the figure skaters getting off the ice while the sun was still rising.
The lobby, to a child, was an expansive playground. You had the firepit that seemed built for tape-ball and shinny stick games (and horrible rug burns). You had rectangular seating areas that were apt for climbing, jumping, and hide-and-go-seek. And, of course, the arcade games. I still remember watching with awe as Mr. Kiddell would play the Indiana Jones pinball machine for hours, using every trick in the book to rack up points, rarely having to pull the “new ball” plunger shaped like the grip of a pistol. And I still can’t walk by a Galaga machine today without remembering the hours (and quarters) I spent playing while my dad coached the Icemen.
Of course, the real point of the Ice House, for me, was to be on the ice. Which I was. A lot. Every year, I’d get a pair of Scotty’s Ross’s hand-me-down skates, head down the hill from his house, and skate ‘til my feet bled. This is no exaggeration. In the summers, my dad would run hockey camps where I’d skate with every age group throughout the day. And If I ever wasn’t on the ice, I’d be behind the rink, shooting pucks at the pots and pans the coaches tied up to old hockey nets for target practice.
During the regular season, I’d get there early to skate with my team, and stay all night to skate with whoever’d have me, then skate the late-night practice with the Icemen. I still think I remember the moment when Joe Sacksteder stopped letting me score and started trying to stop me. This was a big moment for a young kid. On the weekends, I would go to watch the Icemen in complete awe. To a child, those games might as well have been the NHL.
And, for my worst memories: At my birthday party when I was skating behind the net in the defensive zone, and Don Walker, who was a grown adult man on the other team, called for the puck and I passed it to him. He laughed at me and scored against my team. I haven’t fallen for that since. Or, when I flipped the puck in the air (this probably happened more than once) and hit Coach Nagel in the head, drawing blood and anger. Or, my ultimate shame, having 0 goals my first year of mighty mites on the dinky rink. I wanted to be a goalie.
It seems worth noting that we weren’t all going pro. The memories I have are of people coming together to create an experience. A state championship is a nice accomplishment, but it isn’t worth any more than the people you won it with. Riverview Ice house was the mortar between the bricks that is a community. My best memories, my best friends, and my best opportunities sprung from Riverview Ice House. And I owe all of my accomplishments and life successes to that community.
It would be a shame to deny such opportunities to those living downtown, who may not be able to get over to the far-east side of Rockford. I am very lucky and grateful that my parents were able to provide me with the opportunities to skate wherever there was ice. But the financial and cultural barriers to hockey are already far too difficult to overcome. Relegating hockey to Riverside and Perryville might as well explicitly deny it from those who live downtown and have financial hardships.
A place is more than a pile of bricks. Riverview Ice House is more than a couple slabs of ice. It is an opportunity for community. And I hope it can be for future generations.
