This column originally ran in The Standard-Times on March 7, 2004.

By Nick Tavares
Standard-Times correspondent

The names above me hung as an ever-present reminder of the greats who had preceded me. Johnny Bucyk. Phil Esposito. Ray Bourque. Cam Neely.

This was my moment in the spotlight, my one chance to forever cast my name among those who will forever live in Boston lore, and the fans showered me with a most deserving response.

"BOOOOOOOOOO!"

It was spectacular.

This past Thursday, I found myself in the FleetCenter, watching our streaking Bruins try to tie up a home-ice spot in the Eastern Conference playoffs against the freshly gutted New York Rangers. Sitting in my seat about 20 minutes before the opening face-off, wearing my black vintage B's sweater and drinking a soda, a FleetCenter attendant approached me.

"Excuse me sir, are you a college student?"

"Um, yes I am."

"Would you like to take a shot during the first intermission for the chance to win a new Hummer?"

"Yeah, OK, I'll do it, sure, yeah, yep."

Really quickly, a Hummer is one of those monster SUVs that the Army makes for famous people. They cost roughly a quarter billion dollars, get six miles to the gallon and wouldn't fit in my street, much less my driveway.

But it's still a free car.

I made my way down to Level 4 of the FleetCenter with 10 minutes remaining in the first period to meet up with the three other contestants. I was surprised to see I was not only the oldest, but also the calmest. The way I saw it, since I didn't walk in with a Hummer, it really wouldn't be a big deal to walk out without one.

The attendant gave each of us a pair of ice-shoes to pull over our sneakers, a stick and a word of advice before piling into the car that would take us onto the ice.

"Whatever you do, don't take a slap shot. We've seen too many people fall on their butt after trying that."

The lovely ice girls assisted us out of the car to a rousing ovation, which I will safely assume wasn't directed toward us. We stood at the far blue line to take our shot for the chance to be entered for a chance to win the Hummer at the end of the season. I was the third in line.

The first kid missed but not by much, and he felt some boos come his way. The second sort of flipped the puck, and though it was hard enough, it wasn't on the money. My shot came next.

My first — and really only — thought was to make sure it had the distance. I had seen people take shots the length of the ice like this and come up about 20 feet short. If I was going to miss, I wanted to at least miss with my manhood in tact.

I batted the puck around a couple of times and unleashed a wrist shot. I immediately looked up and made a very stark realization.

Oh man. I'm gonna miss the net by 50 feet.

It was closer to the bench than the net, and the Boston faithful made sure I knew it. No sooner had the puck left the blade of my stick the boos started, and they were thunderous.

I did the only thing I could do -- my best Ray Bourque impression, throwing both arms in the air with stick and my head raised high.

The jeers may have gotten louder at that point, but maybe it was just me.

I'll likely never have the chance to stand on the ice and be booed like this again. I reveled in it. I fed off it. It was a dream come true.

Afterwards, I took a little stock in what I had accomplished. Out of the 281,421,906 people living in this country, roughly 660 play in the National Hockey League. Minus me and my three peers, that leaves 281,421,242 people who probably haven't been booed during an NHL game. I stand in elite company.

So I wasn't Cam Neely, Ray Bourque or Joe Thornton in my on-ice debut. I wasn't even Brent Hughes.

But I did get booed.

Loudly.

And I still came closer to the net than any of you.

Nick Tavares misses shots daily as a member of the sports department. You can reach him at ntavares@s-t.com.

This story appeared on Page E7 of The Standard-Times on March 7, 2004.