A tribute to the senior hockey players at West Hartford’s Hall High School – and their families – as the regular season and their high school hockey chapter comes to an end.

By Michelle Bonner: Hall Hockey Parent, Former ESPN and CNN Anchor, VP at Adams & Knight

Senior Night doesn’t feel the way people expect it to.

No dramatic shift in the air. No siren. The rink looks the same. The ice sounds the same. The boards wear the same scars they always have.

And yet – everyone feels it.

It announces itself when the music stops. When the line of boys who have shared this frozen rectangle for years step forward, one by one, and the rink is asked – finally – to stop. To look.

That’s the moment time forgets its lines and breaks character.

Hockey doesn’t slow for meaning or memory. It drags you forward by the jersey, indifferent to whether your heart is ready. Senior Night is the rare interruption: a forced stillness where the weight of everything lands at once.

All of it.

Every 3:30 a.m. alarm that shattered sleep before the day had a name.

Every mile driven in darkness, headlights cutting through the roads the world hasn’t woken up to yet.

Every season stacked so quietly, one on top of the next, until it blocked the view entirely.

The cold waiting behind the rink doors like an old friend who won’t leave.

The routines that felt forever – until they became borrowed time.

No one claps for that.

No one applauds for the years that slipped away without asking if anyone was ready to let them go.

Senior Night isn’t loud the way goals are loud.
It’s loud in the chest.

It’s realizing this exact alchemy – this noise, this cold, this brotherhood – will never exist again.

Not next year.
Not ever.

It hurts because it’s goodbye to this hockey.

Layered over years of sacrifice, hockey asks for everything and offers nothing freely in return. It takes time before it takes skill and leaves its mark long after seasons end.

It’s a sport not measured in goals and saves, but in the spaces between: whispered superstitions, the quiet confidence of a perfectly taped stick, in gloves broken in just enough to feel like a second skin, shin pads softened by a thousand impacts. A glance between teammates after a hard shift – no words needed – just the shared understanding that the work was done. And in the way a locker room can be the loudest place on earth before a game and the quietest after a tough loss.

On Saturday, parents will look down the bench and – for one unbearable second – see two versions of the same boy at once, time briefly folding in on itself: a child who tripped over his own bag walking to his first practice, buried inside the young man who now steps onto the ice like he owns every inch of it.

Both are still there.

Both are leaving.

This night holds everything at once: gratitude knotted with grief, pride laced with disbelief, joy threaded tightly with the knowledge that time has been moving faster than anyone noticed.

And that’s what makes it heavy.

This season, eight seniors stepped onto the ice carrying journeys that look different on paper but feel remarkably similar in the body. Shaped by a sport that demanded something different from each of them – yet taught them the same lessons: how to show up when it’s hard, how to be accountable when it matters, how to belong to something bigger than yourself.

#6 Connor “Crash” McHugh plays like the game owes him something and he’s come to collect. Every time the puck touches his stick the ice tilts. He scores because he sees the play before it happens. He assists because he understands the best offense is trust. He’s scored goals that live in the rafters and in the memory of every kid who watched from the stands wishing they could move like that. A true point producer, a true competitor, and a player who carries responsibility naturally. When he leaves, the rink will feel unfairly balanced forever.

#22 Ben “Goldy” Goldstein plays the game the way coaches dream it up on whiteboards – power through the middle, instinct at the net, space turned into opportunity. A freight train in a hockey jersey. He is strength and momentum wrapped into one. A scorer who doesn’t hesitate, who attacks the ice with confidence, and who changes the tone of a shift the moment he jumps over the boards. You can hear the building inhale when he winds up because everyone knows what’s coming and no one can stop it. And off the ice, his reputation carries just as much weight – the kind that once led a teammate, when asked if someone was nice, to pause and say, “Yes…but not Ben Goldstein nice.”

#1 Matthew Bonner has played the game from the most demanding, lonely, and unforgiving place on the ice. A crease that leaves nowhere to hide and never forgets. He’s stood alone as chaos collapsed in, decisions instantaneous, pressure invisible on any scoresheet. He’s carried games on his shoulders without asking for them, stood where blame lives, held the weight that doesn’t show up in the stats, and reset when others would unravel. What he gives is certainty – the freedom for teammates to attack knowing something steady stands behind them. Goaltending offers no grace. Only responsibility. And he meets it the way he meets everything – steady, unflinching, there.

#24 Sawyer Hollander brings sheer grit the old-fashioned way: honest, punishing, earned. A defenseman who understands that hockey isn’t just played – it’s absorbed. He finishes every check like he’s signing his name. The boards will carry his signature in dents and chips long after he’s gone. You don’t move Sawyer. You survive him. And in front of the net, he’s the wall no one asked for but every goalie lives for – the guy who clears the crease like it’s personal, who never asks the game to be easier than it is and who takes the hits so his netminder doesn’t have to, with a shove that says, “Not on my watch.”

#2 Charlie Ganey is relentless motion – always there, always pressing, always making opponents uncomfortable just by existing. He is the shift you survive. He lives in the hard places on sticks, along boards, inside decisions opponents wish they had back. The kind of player who doesn’t need to dominate a shift to define it, whose value lives in persistence and edge and the quiet satisfaction of knowing he made someone’s night harder.

#8 Dillon McDermott plays the game in a way that settles everything around him – quiet control, patience, choosing the right moment, and giving the game only what it earns. He holds his space, closes gaps, and makes the simple play when it matters most. His impact is constant – doing the work that keeps games manageable and teammates confident, the kind of presence every team needs and every locker room values. It doesn’t ask for attention, but it earns total respect.

#26 Tommy Leahy plays hockey with gratitude. With joy. With a deep appreciation for every shift, every moment, every chance to be out there with his teammates. He brings patience to the game – the kind that comes from understanding that hockey isn’t just about when your moment arrives, but how you show up until it does. He has given this team commitment and a willingness to be part of something bigger, every single day – a kind of presence that matters more than it’s ever acknowledged.

#30 Nate Weiner understands what it means to be ready. A goalie’s life is waiting – preparing, watching, staying present – knowing that when the moment comes, it comes fast. He has lived in that space, supporting his teammates long before his number was called. This year, Nate earned a start, and with it, the trust of his team. He stepped into the crease calm and composed, doing exactly what goalies are asked to do: stand tall, stay present, and give his team confidence.

These eight young men have given this sport their bodies, their sleep, their childhood Saturdays, their family vacations – their everything.

The bus rides blur together now –
dark highways, fogged windows, gear piled high.

The late nights that stretched just long enough
to make tomorrow feel too close.

Arguments over music.
The familiar stop for food.
Subway wrappers crumpled and forgotten on the floor.

Tape and wax.
Missing socks.
Skates that never quite dried.

Hotels chosen less for proximity
than for the pool and hot tub –
because midnight swims mattered after long days at the rink.

Kids racing down hallways,
still buzzing from games that wouldn’t let them sleep.

The added bonus when the hotel included the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet.
Plates stacked high. Medals clinking softly against trays. Exhaustion masked by syrup and laughter.

Game pucks.
National anthems.
Knee hockey in hotel lobbies.
Sticks tapping against walls long after quiet hours were posted.

Pig piles after tournament wins – sticks and helmets lie abandoned across the ice,
joy breaking loose faster than anyone can contain it.

Sleeping with a championship medal around your neck.
The hardware cradled in your hand like proof it really happened.

The smell – sharpened steel, damp pads, sweat and cold air –
of gear spread across kitchen floors,
as if the game itself had followed everyone home.

A kaleidoscope of memories.
And just like that –
it’s over.

When they were little, their eyes searched the stands without thinking – when reassurance lived in familiar faces and a wave from behind the glass could steady everything. Tonight, that shifts. Parents watch from a different distance now, knowing their role has changed. They’ll soak up every stride, every whistle, every held breath – standing in the quiet knowledge that something they have carried alongside their child for years is loosening its grip.

Tonight, these boys – who grew up in the rink – skate the ice that raised them, as young men.

The noise will swell, then fall.
Names called. Sticks tap the ice. Light glances off fresh cuts in the surface.
Then, almost without warning, the rink slips back into itself – the way it always does.

Soon, the boards will quiet.
The ice resurfacer cuts a fresh sheet.
Jerseys will be folded. Bags zipped. Years packed away.

What endures isn’t the time they gave the game, but what the sport gave them back – a way of carrying themselves through the world. Hockey doesn’t raise players gently. It teaches steadiness under pressure. Loyalty forged in shared discomfort. Humility earned through defeat. Young men who arrive early, stay late, absorb impact, and hold space for others without needing any credit.

No other sport asks more.
Or gives back so quietly.

Senior Night is where it gathers – not as a highlight reel or stat sheet, but as time briefly made visible.

One of the last chances to see it whole.
One of the last times it will ever look exactly like this.

And maybe that’s the real wound – not that it ends, but that it was so real while it lasted.

So, on this Senior Night –
Thank you.
We love you.
We’re so proud of you.
And God, we’re going to miss you.
Now go win the damn game.

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