On Saturday night, my wife and I went to our first hockey game of the year.  We watched the Nashville Predators defeat an excellent Carolina Hurricanes team to clinch a spot in the Stanley Cup playoffs.

The game was in Bridgestone Arena in downtown Nashville, right in the middle of the biggest party for 200 miles, Lower Broad.  This area is a strip of honkytonks, bars, and restaurants that, on Saturday night, become a mass of humanity and people having a grand old time.

There is loud music, people are dancing, and the restaurants are bustling.  The streets are packed with cars and party buses.  These are open-top old buses, fire trucks, and even tractor-pulled wagons full of people enjoying life.  They can party all over the downtown area without ever leaving the bus.  Lower Broad is a Spring Break–type party without the sand or ocean.

COVID must not exist here.  Social distancing was exactly zero.  It might have been less than zero with some.  There were no masks or circles on the sidewalk instructing everyone as to proper distance.  The music was loud, the people were in full party mode, and the drinks were flowing freely.  Twenty twenty was a distant memory.

This was not my party.  I was there for the hockey game.  My wife and I had to run this gauntlet of mostly young people partying with great intensity.  It was going strong when we got there just after five.  When we got out at half-past nine, it was wide open.

It was fun just seeing people have a great time even though that is not my style.  Make no mistake: these people were enjoying life.  Tomorrow was the farthest thing from their minds.  The exuberance of youth was on full display.

Then there was Bridgestone Arena.  Earlier in the day, I had filled out a questionnaire asking if I felt sick or had COVID or knew anyone that did.  Answer "YES" to any of them, and we would lose our tickets.  The result of my "COVID screen" was sent to my phone.

As we approached the arena, we came upon a rope line manned by arena staff who asked to see my phone to show our screening results.  Once inside this gauntlet, everything changed.  Everyone must wear masks.  You couldn't forget, because the announcements were incessant.  "Stand apart."  "Wear your mask."  They repeated this over and over.  There were signs and reminders everywhere.

Never mind that we had just squeezed through the biggest unmasked, un-distanced party within several hundred miles.  Once we got to the city block of Bridgestone Arena, it was COVID central.  The arena was at about one third capacity.  Tickets must be bought in pods so that only people who are usually together can sit together.  There were horizontal gaps to keep pods apart, but there were pods in the row in front of us and in the row behind us.  One third capacity sort of requires that the distancing rules be "flexible."

There was an arena employee with a hand-held sign like a crossing guard stating, "WEAR YOUR MASK."  He spent the entire night walking around looking for people with missing or below-the-nose masks.

If you were eating, you could take the mask off.  If you were drinking, you could remove it for sips.  We discussed this later and decided that a huge tub of popcorn munched a kernel at a time might allow a legal mask-off for the whole game.  Otherwise, drop the mask and get the sign.

The giant video screens had constant reminders to "WEAR YOUR MASK."  Every single one of us had just walked through thousands of partying people with no distancing or masks.  No one cared except arena management.

It was a good game, with 60 minutes of great hockey.  The COVID nuisance was noticeable only while there was a break in the action, when the crossing guard and the videos did their work.  We knew they had a job to do with rules to enforce.  All we questioned was the illogic of the rules that change drastically in the thickness of a rope.

When it was all over and we had screamed our support of the team and their victory and had cheered for the stars of the game, we were asked to leave in alternate sections of even numbers first and then odd numbers so we could maintain distancing.

This is the logic of COVID restrictions.  On the lockdown side of the rope, you wear the mask and stay distanced.  The rules cannot be broken.  Outside the arena rope, it is party time again, shoulder to shoulder and constantly moving.  It is a dividing line of opposites defined by a rope.

The Predators made the playoffs, and I think I may try to attend another game.  The next time, I may spend more time outside the rope with the unafraid.  People out there have gone back to enjoying life.

Image: Bridgestone fans proving they're healthy.  YouTube screen grab.

To comment, you can find the MeWe post for this article here.