In the autumn and winter of 2000, I became a kind of honorary Canadian.

At the very least, I drank beer and played NHL '99 and listened to The Tragically Hip and cheered Bret "The Hitman" Hart and watched The Red Green Show and Kids in the Hall.

I had just moved from regional New South Wales to Canberra and college and quickly became friends with a Canadian called Chris, who, in a moment lacking in both genius and creativity, quickly became Chris the Canadian. 

Chris the Canadian and I would spend any number of our nights drinking beer and playing Nintendo hockey and annoying neighbours with Courage and Fifty-Mission Cap. How could you not become interested in Bill Barilko and the Leafs and hockey with Gordon Downie belting out "they didn't win another until 1962, the year he was discovered, I stole this from a hockey card..."

It was around then that I had taken to Mark Messier and the New York Rangers, an affection which still abides. My brother, he was a Star, of the Dallas variety, a Mike Modano nut. 

When Chris and I started playing, it was all very reminiscent of Swingers, when Trent and Sue are playing hockey and Sue "is superfan number 99" and Trent makes Gretzky's head bleed and insists on using the instant replay. I was usually in the role of Sue: claiming bullshit, too emotionally invested and generally sulking after another loss.

We would stay up til our thumbs ached, talking hockey and busting balls and kicking it to the chorus of Blow at High Dough: "Sometimes the faster it gets, the less you need to know, but you gotta remember, the smarter it gets the further it's going to go".

Chris went home in the winter of that year and I didn't think about hockey for a while. I missed those long faux-Canadian nights. 

He soon moved to Anaheim and when I visited last, he had just seen the Ducks, a team he had developed a soft spot for, win the Cup. There he was, holding Lord Stanley's Mug only days after the win, Rob Niedermayer still sporting his playoff beard next to him.

When I got an invitation last week to attend the finals series of the Australian Ice Hockey League, these memories came flooding back and I was naturally thrilled. I had never really seen big-time hockey before and though this wasn't the NHL and this wasn't Madison Square Garden, the players were amateur and a game on ice was being played in the Sunburnt Country, it had the real feel of a major sporting event. 

When I walked in, media pass around the neck, I was hit by that refreshing smell of cold, like walking into the cool-room of a butcher shop sans the sawdust, I was surprised at what a perfect venue The Icehouse was. It was little wonder the AIHL brass had decided to stage the semi-finals and Grand Final at this sensational arena over the course of a single weekend, a fine innovation that no doubt helped draw hockey fans from across Australia. 

I was here for the second semi-final, between the free-flowing Newcastle North Stars and the mean and tough Sydney Ice Dogs. I was going to be cheering for the North Stars. I had enjoyed playing with the Minnesota North Stars in Blades of Steel and their striking blue uniforms, not dissimilar to the New York Rangers, clinched it. 

The stands were packed, nearly all of the 1500 seats taken with plenty squeezed into the standing area. And boy, were the fans raucous. Near the media box, a pack of Ice Dog fans whooped and hollered and banged the boards, trying to inspire their boys. Fans of all ages attended. Plenty of ex-pats, I'm sure. But more than a fair share of locals keen to check out this relatively foreign sport. 

I am told the atmosphere was even more intense for the first semi-final when the local team, the Melbourne Ice, had won their way into the decider with a dominant 8-3 victory over the Adelaide Adrenaline. 

It didn't take me long to sit back and revel in the skills on offer. These guys may not be paid but they are outstanding athletes, a mix of enforcer-types and speedy wingmen and multi-skilled utilities whose control of the puck and their own bodies while skating is something to behold. 

The knock on hockey is that it is hard to see the puck on television. There is no such worry watching live. You can follow it with a good deal of ease, even in heavy traffic around the net or as it skates along the boards. 

The North Stars took the lead early, going up 1-0 on a quick passing play that reminded me, in both its swiftness and preciseness, of a St George-Illawarra left-side play where it goes from Boyd to either Creagh or Cooper and onto Morris. 

I quickly developed a like for two players in particular. 

Ray Sheffield, the African-American captain of the North Stars, was a real leader, an on-ice general who relied on the cunning and wile only experience brings.

And No.42, Brian Bales, the Alaskan-born leftie and sixth in points for the League and the reigning League MVP. He was class and he didn't mind a bit of chit-chat either, clashing with Ice Dog Brett Thomas, who was involved in nearly all the scuffles. 

The free-flowing Stars were leading the slow, methodical Ice Dogs 1-0 though Sydney had controlled the ice position for much of the latter part of the period. 

It was in the second term that the Stars asserted their ascendancy. The Dogs had squared it 1-1 after a schoolboy defensive error by Rob Starke presented the Sydney team with the equaliser. Matt Ezzy, the North Stars goalie who is as reliable as bacon, was unimpressed and exchanged stern words. 

The Stars then unleashed with a quick double. 

Newcastle tapped in from in front, nearly scored off a slapshot within 30 seconds and then soon after the North Stars took their lead to two off a beautiful fast break that was finished with a chilling clinicality. 

The highlight of the period for me was the hits, one of which occurred right in front of me, Sheffield smashed right against the boards in front of me. There was only a piece of Perspex between me, the squashed up face of a beast and the driving force which put the champion skipper into that position.

The Ice Dogs tried hard early and peppered Ezzy, but you can tell why the Newcastle tender is the No.1 player at his position in the League. He repelled everything. He was in full control. Even when there was a stoppage, he was a man of process, showing signs of obsessive-compulsive disorder by skating a half-circle at every stop. 

In a match that was becoming increasingly feisty, the free-flowing North Stars held their nerve while the Ice Dogs lost theirs. Hockey seems to be, at its heart, a game of discipline. It accepts controlled violence, but every breach of the rules leaves your teammates short so to lack discipline is to have a tangible negative impact on your team.

Peter Cartwright put the North Stars up 4-1 and though the Dogs hit back with a beautiful slapshot. The match finished 5-2 when the Stars scored with the goalie out of the net. 

I have always considered hockey a romantic sport. It is steeped in history, coddled in oddity, marked by toughness and driven by passion. 

When you go to the Icehouse and probably any of the AIHL arenas, you get all of that. You get the heavy hits, the precise puck control, the flowing beauty of a hockey break and the constant feistiness that the game encourages. 

As of now, you can consider me a rusted-on hockey fan.