Detroit — I had some friends visiting the city and needed to show them a good time. So, on a whim, we went to a Red Wings game. Losing track of the time amidst the greetings and reunion, we ended up speeding down I-75, wondering just how bad the parking situation would be. It was bad. I paid $60 for parking, and the line into the garage was ridiculous. Once inside Little Caesar’s Arena, I was further upset by the extortion I faced at the bar. I paid $30 dollars for two Oberon Eclipses.
But everything changed as soon as we sat down.
The game had already started. Fans were tucked into their seats, attentively watching some of the baddest brutes perform something so graceful, elegant, and passionate that I hesitate to call it a sport. As I looked out upon the ice from up high, I thought, for just a moment, we might be witnessing a ballet.

Large men floated across the arena. Moving with the speed of hell and the grace of angels, they battled over a puck. The long sticks, curved just at the end, and the muscular bodies, towering over the referees, inspired visions of farmers going to war after the armies failed, making their last stand on their sacred land.
Years of practicing and perfecting the brutal acts of sport had cultivated beauty in the Red Wings’ violence.
I was enraptured. Personally, I don’t enjoy watching sports. I’m cynical to the point of ridiculousness and can’t help but think: I could do that if I trained—it’s really not that impressive. But with hockey, there is so much happening all at once. The players spin on a dime, skating backwards at high speeds, as they fight for a small black chip that sails across the ice faster than they.
It has all the movement of soccer, all the force of football, and a finesse that neither sport can imitate.
The atmosphere in the arena was convivial. Strangers quipped among themselves. The scene was always tense, and when fights broke out, the crowds were quick to stand and cheer.

If sports are socially sanctioned spaces for violence—a cathartic or Dionysian outlet necessary in civil society—the hockey fight is the most elevated simulation of war.
Football offers a vision of warfare reminiscent of the Revolutionary War: two lines of men charging into one another out in the open. But on the ice, I saw scenes from the Iliad, an ancient form of war in which glory is won by the strongest men, not their generals.
Unlike UFC or boxing, hockey is a team sport. And while the team works together toward a victorious end, in the heat of battle, Achilles and Hector are permitted to fight one on one. The hockey fight exemplifies the battles celebrated in ancient epics and invoked at the birth of empires.

Twice, I saw men crash into one another, showing no restraint. It all happened so quickly that I wondered how it had started. I think there was a particularly nasty check? Maybe a stick got thrown in front of someone’s skates?
These battles can break out over just about anything, but typically they seem to be about defending one’s honor and enforcing rules of fair play. As the first two begin to clash, the referees work to create distance between the teammates and the warring men. But rarely does this work, and soon fellow players jump in—rarely to defend their teammate, but rather to fight a member of the opposing team.
Between the periods, young hockey players showed off for an encouraging crowd. A man proposed to his girlfriend, beautiful women laughed and cheered when the camera landed on them, children unable to contain their excitement danced in the aisles. Announcers later honored veterans for their displays of heroism in real battles, the ones that provide us with the freedom to enjoy the simulations at home.

While sports might seem like the frivolous distractions of an empire in its latest stage, they clearly serve a great social good.
Hockey, like the theatre in ancient Greece, helps us to explore the brutality of war and conflict, to celebrate the victory of our cities over others—and all with a unique beauty and grace. And best of all? The Wings won 2-0.
Caleb Wallace Holm is a contributing writer for Michigan Enjoyer. Follow him on X @calebwholm and Instagram @calebwallaceholm.