What Happened to Road Hockey? The Lost Art of Driveway Glory

"Car!"

If you know, you know.

For generations of kids who grew up loving hockey, road hockey wasn’t just a game—it was a way of life. It was where you built your hands, learned creativity, battled through snowbanks, and settled every argument with one final goal that totally counted… until the next one did too.

But now? The driveways are empty. The tennis balls aren’t frozen. And the biggest tragedy of all? Kids don’t seem to know what they’re missing.

So what happened? And more importantly—can we bring it back?

2377 Glenview Avenue: Where Legends Were Made

For me, road hockey was 2377 Glenview Avenue, deep in the heart of Brocklehurst, in John & Taylor Bradley’s driveway. And Taylor’s house? It had the best nets on the North Shore. That was a big reason we played there—it was basically our Madison Square Garden.

But it wasn’t just the nets—his driveway was perfect. Flat, smooth, not littered with gravel like some of the other setups. It even had a perfect patch of lawn, which, of course, became hunting grounds for the older kids when the full-contact rule was instituted.

And the gear? Well, let’s just say we weren’t exactly rocking NHL setups:

• Goalie Pads? Bungee-corded upholstery foam from who-knows-where.
• Blocker? A hockey glove that had been beaten to death over years of road battles.
• Catcher? Whatever Little League baseball mitt you could dig up.
• Sticks? Either some old, splintered twig or, if you were really lucky, one of those plastic blades you could screw onto a wooden shaft and curve yourself.

There was no dedicated goalie—we all had to take our turn between the pipes, suited up in a makeshift uniform of ripped sweatpants, lawn-mowing shoes, and a Kamloops Minor Hockey jacket—because nothing said "I’m a real player" like repping a battered old team coat.

And if you ever actually learned to lift the ball? Prepare to be accused of slicing it. That was the go-to chirp from the kids still figuring out how to take a slapshot (aka, half the squad).

The Rules, The Rumbles & The Rivalries

Every street had its own set of unwritten road hockey rules, but the best ones were universal:

• “Car!” – The game pauses, nets are dragged to the curb, and everyone glares at the driver who clearly doesn’t appreciate the importance of this matchup.
• “Next goal wins!” – Except, of course, when it didn’t.
• The Body-Checking Zone – If the ball went onto the lawn, it was full contact. Good luck surviving.
• Younger Kids Wait Their Turn – We weren’t allowed to play with the older kids like John, Wes Peterson, Brandon Robinson, Rogan Anderson and Brent Fritz. We had to earn our way in—until then, we were glorified puck retrievers.

And then, of course, there was the mandatory fight between brothers John and Taylor. Every game, without fail, ended with Taylor being a full-blown pest, the Claude Lemieux of the driveway, pushing John’s buttons just enough until you could see John grit his teeth, his entire face turning red, and then BOOM—rage blackout mode engaged. Suddenly, the game turned into Taylor running for his life while John chased him down with pure, unfiltered sibling fury.

At some point, Taylor would be sprinting inside, tears flowing, John would be fuming, and we would all be laughing it off, ready for the next game. Because at 2377 Glenview Avenue, there were no refs, no rules—just pride, chaos, and one last goal that totally counted.

The Intermission Hall of Fame

Hockey has the Stanley Cup, the Conn Smythe Trophy, and the Rocket Richard. But road hockey? We had something better:

Janice Bradley’s intermission spread, fueled by North Kamloops’ own Buns Master Bakery.

• Fresh baking, hot chocolate, and enough food to fuel an entire roster—because, let’s be honest, she wasn’t just feeding us for a season, she did it for half a decade.
• We’d pile into the house, still sweating, covered in driveway battle scars, stuffing our faces before heading right back outside for another war.
• It was part of the ritual—like an actual dressing-room intermission, only instead of a coach yelling at us, it was Janice making sure nobody tracked snow inside.

The Walk Home: 3 Blocks of Reflection & NHL Dreams

After the game, I’d walk three blocks back home to 2318 Moody Avenue, replaying every highlight and lowlight in my head.

We grew up in the Oilers Dynasty era of the late ‘80s, so everyone wanted to be Gretzky, Messier, Kurri, Coffey, or Fuhr. And every night, we mimicked them in the driveway, imagining scoring that last-second goal before time expired.

And just like today’s kids call "Kobe!" when they shoot a trash-ball jumper, we counted down our own game-winning goals—making absolutely sure the ball crossed the line before the buzzer, avoiding controversy and an "official call to Toronto."

Eventually, the streetlights came on, and parents started yelling names down the road, signaling that our time under the lights of Glenview Gardens had expired. Some just hollered from their front steps, while others called the Bradley house directly—because every kid knew 376-6400 as well as the opening lines of O Canada.

One by one, kids peeled off, heading home for meatloaf and a night of Hockey Night in Canada, already waiting for tomorrow’s rematch.

Final Wrap-Up

These games weren’t just ours. They were everywhere. From Kamloops to Swift Current to St. John’s, Newfoundland. After-school road hockey games played out in driveways, cul-de-sacs, and empty parking lots across the country. They were the threads of fabric woven into the tapestry of our generation and our country, where every kid, no matter where they lived, shared the same dream—one last goal before the streetlights came on.

There were no skills coaches, private ice, or controlled stick times—just cold asphalt, structurally compromised sticks, and sub-zero temperatures that made our breath visible in the air as we huffed and puffed through hours of driveway battles. This was where we learned the game—by playing, by failing, by dreaming. This was where we all became Gretzky, Lemieux, Bourque, or Roy, if only for an afternoon.

Memories were made. Dreams were chased. And in those moments—before dinner, before homework, before we had to grow up—we were all Hall of Famers and Stanley Cup champions.

 Game over, lights out at Glenview Gardens 🏒

About the Author

Darrell Hay’s childhood stats include 87 broken tennis balls, 24 garage-door dents, and one deeply bruised shin from eating a frozen tennis ball like a champ to preserve a victory at Glenview Gardens. Growing up playing road hockey at 2377 Glenview Avenue, he dreamed of one day being one of the NHL stars he mimicked in the driveway. Luckily, he had a secret weapon—his dad, a firefighter with the Kamloops Fire Department, which came with certain perks. Chief among them? Roof inspections at local schools, where every lost tennis ball was collected and brought home, ensuring that the supply of road hockey biscuits never ran dry. These days, he still believes that the best skills come from unstructured play—and that somewhere, a kid is ripping tennis balls against a dented garage door, dreaming of becoming the next Mathews, Makar or MacKinnon.