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

There comes a moment in every hockey player’s life when the game slows down – not because of skill or strategy, but because they know they are skating toward an ending. The same rink, the same boards, the same freezing cold air that has shaped them for over a decade suddenly feels different. More meaningful. More fleeting.

For this year’s Hall High School Boys Hockey seniors, that moment has arrived – at least for their final regular season home game.

Hockey is unapologetically unlike any other sport. While some sports are played; hockey is lived. It doesn’t just demand skill; it exacts a toll, layered over years of sacrifice. It asks for everything – body and mind, time and heart – but offers nothing freely in return. It is a relentless, unshakable force that etches itself into the bones of those who lace up – a sacred bond between blade and ice, between teammates and time, a story told in broken-in gloves, battered shin pads, and a knowing glance between linemates after a hard shift that said everything without saying a thing.

Hockey isn’t measured only in goals and saves, but in the spaces between. The whispered superstitions. The quiet confidence of a perfectly taped stick. The way a locker room can be the loudest place on earth before a game and the quietest after a tough loss.

For some, hockey is a season. For others, a handful of years. But for these four seniors – Declan Stone, Zach Gerken, Billy DeBassio, and Tommy Finley – the sport has been a constant. It has wrapped itself around their lives like a well-worn jersey – threaded through ungodly 3:30 a.m. alarms that shattered the silence, where half-asleep parents murmured wake-up calls from doorways as they pulled themselves from the cocoon of warm beds, stepping out into a world still draped in darkness, where the cold hits like a wall – leaving them longing for the shelter of the rink.

Through late-night practices that stretched just long enough to make tomorrow feel too close, where the doors to the rink swing open into a world already gone quiet, the night sky pressing down like a closing chapter. Where headlights sliced through the empty parking lot across from Vets as players shuffled out – their breath visible in the chill of a night air clashing against sweat-damp clothes.

Through long road trips measured in miles and memories, punctuated by the eternal debate – McDonald’s, Subway, or Dunkin’ – where the backseat votes rarely matched the driver’s decision, and somehow, a pile of crumpled napkins – branded reminders of where hunger won out – always found their way onto the floor.

On the night of Wednesday, Feb. 26, these four young men step onto the ice, each with a legacy uniquely their own. They step into a scene as familiar as breathing – a ritual repeated nearly 500 times in every way imaginable: fresh-legged and fearless, exhausted and aching. They know the way the boards rattle and groan in reply and how the cold clings to them like a second skin. They know these corners of the rink like an old map, each turn instinctive, each angle a ghost of muscle memory. They know the sharp scent of fresh ice, the way time slows in a breakaway, the way a glove save can steal breath from the room. But tonight, familiarity feels fragile. Because tonight, they’re not just playing a game – they’re leaving a piece of themselves behind.

Declan, the enforcer, the workhorse, the kind of player who makes opponents think twice before coming down his lane. A beast in every sense, he doesn’t just deliver hard hits – he absorbs them, shakes them off, and comes back harder. The unwavering presence of a teammate’s teammate – always there, always battling. His game is built on grit, the kind that wears opponents down shift by shift, an unyielding presence who never takes a shift off, playing each one like it’s his last. He’s the guy you want on your line in the final seconds, the one who digs deep in the corners, and sacrifices his body without a second thought. But in the end, it’s not the hits or the glory of his own success that defines him, but the way he lights up when a teammate scores – celebrating their triumph as if it were his own, proving that his true joy comes from seeing others shine.

Zach, the quiet guardian of the blue line, a defenseman in the purest sense. He doesn’t just defend his zone; he owns it, reading plays before they unfold, closing gaps before they become threats. A wall of grit and determination, his goalie doesn’t need to look to know he’s there – clearing traffic, shutting down angles, making sure the crease is his goalie’s and no one else’s. He’s the kind of player that does all the little things that win games – the poke check that stops a breakaway, the battle along the boards that keeps the puck alive, the well-timed pass that launches the rush. He’s the one who takes pride in making sure his team can play with confidence, knowing he’s got their back. His game speaks for him, and what it says is simple: Not on my watch.

Billy, the heartbeat, the fire, the leader who has willed himself back onto the ice after a season stolen by circumstance. He has carried the weight of missed time, but while he may not have played in every game this season make no mistake – his presence has been felt in every huddle, every bench exchange, every moment when doubt threatened to creep in, ready when his teammates needed to hear, “We’ve got this.”  His impact has never been measured in goals or assists, but in the way his teammates stand a little taller when he’s near – a reflection of how his influence and leadership has shaped not just the team’s performance but also their character over the years. Throughout the seasons Billy has been the one quietly going the extra mile – a moment to work on a drill with a younger player, the conversations no one sees, the steady influence that doesn’t demand applause but earns total respect. Now he’s back – not just as a player, but as proof that resilience isn’t about waiting for a moment – it’s about making one. Wednesday, when he steps onto the ice for the final time in a regular season game at home, it will be a reminder that some players leave more than just their name on the roster.

And Tommy, the hockey player’s player. The one who makes the impossible look effortless, whose finesse turns routine plays into highlight reels. There is a grace to his game, a hushed stillness to his movement, a sharpness to his scoring that only those who truly understand the game can appreciate. He doesn’t overpower; he outthinks. He doesn’t just see the ice; he feels it. His game is instinct wrapped in skill, the kind that makes teammates trust and opponents second-guess. But it’s not just his talent that sets him apart – it’s his awareness, his patience, his ability to slow the game down when everything else is speeding up. The way he threads a pass through traffic, turning chaos into opportunity. He has a special gift of timing, knowing exactly when to hold the puck, when to dish it, when to take his shot. When the puck is on his stick, something is about to happen.

Tonight, as the final minutes draw near, a cascade of memories will spiral through the rink, revealing the moments that shaped them as players – teammates and competitors – but more importantly, as young men who learned to shoulder the intensity of expectations, the value of humility, courage in the face of fear, the sting of loss, and the pure, ephemeral joy of victory. Every shift tonight a chapter, every battle a line in the story they’ve written together.

But for everything hockey has taught them – to battle through exhaustion, to take a hit and keep going, to protect the ones beside them, to trust their instincts, to embrace the grind, to celebrate the small moments, to sacrifice for something bigger than themselves – it never teaches them how to let go. It never prepares them for the final whistle, for the moment when the clock runs out.

Then comes a night like this – one that arrives too soon, no matter how many years led up to it. A night where the lights shine a little brighter, the air feels a little colder, and every stride holds a heaviness of something they’ve never carried before – the weight of time. Because tonight, the game that gave them so much is asking for one last thing – to leave everything they have on the ice. The final chapters of a story that spans a decade – from the euphoric highs of rivalry wins and the crushing gravity of near-misses, from pregame rituals and locker room speeches to the inside jokes that only this team will ever understand. The bus rides packed with gear and laughter, the familiar shuffle to claim a favorite seat, the quiet moments staring out the window replaying every shift, but not before the post-game sandwich cradled in their hands with the smell of ham and cheese mingling with anticipation of the next game. The endless search for tape and wax, the energy drinks and smelling salts, the moments that felt routine but became the very foundation of something unforgettable. The sight of their parents’ smiles in the lobby after every home game – win or lose.

And just like that, the clock is running out every single moment they wish they could play on repeat. They’ll look around the locker room and see not just teammates, but fragments of themselves – boys who started this journey together, now stepping onto the ice as young men who know this will never happen again.

There will be a final regular season pregame speech in their home locker room, a final time pulling that white jersey over their head, and a final moment standing tall as the national anthem plays, the stars and stripes swaying gently above them. And in the stands, the faces of the people who have been there since the beginning – the ones who laced the first pair of skates, tied the first knots, drove the countless miles, and packed the postgame snacks. The ones who frantically searched for missing neck guards and socks like they were treasure maps, who trekked to South Windsor after a game to replace a broken stick, and the ones who stood in the cold with their hearts in their throats – will watch it all unfold, knowing they would give anything to do it all over again. Their parents will cling to every shift, blink away tears at the first drop of the puck, and cheer a little louder, because they know – more than their sons do – that once this game is over, the ice will never feel quite the same.

So, under the glow of the rink lights, with their teammates by their side and their families in the stands, Declan, Zach, Billy, and Tommy will take the ice at home for a regular season game one last time – not just to play, but to honor the game that has given them more than they ever could have imagined – a brotherhood that will outlast a final buzzer.

And when they look back – days, months, years from now – the scores will blur, but the feeling of belonging to something bigger than themselves will be something that will never go away. They take that with them, always.

Like what you see here? Click here to subscribe to We-Ha’s newsletter so you’ll always be in the know about what’s happening in West Hartford! Click the blue button below to become a supporter of We-Ha.com and our efforts to continue producing quality journalism.