Stockholm - Three men occupied one bench, two filled the other. Nearing midnight on a Sunday, they looked as likely huddled for warmth as they were awaiting their turn on the rink. Yet they were there, as the rimed ice could attest: grown men playing hockey like children, without referees or fans, their motion fluid, like the sweat that dripped beneath their pads. Why, with no one watching and the work week looming, would they even play at all? Well, one person was watching. Kate Rockwell, of Vernon, sat in the warmth of the lobby, looking on through two layers of glass. Her boyfriend skated inside the second layer, the safety glass surrounding the rink at Skylands Ice World. “He’s been coming forever,” she says, “He loves it.” Asked how he was doing as he exited the game, Derrick Leal responded, “Tired, real tired.” A few minutes later, though, he is back in street clothes, with a giant bag of gear, a slow gait, and a broad smile to show for his efforts. It’s not hard to find his girlfriend in the near-empty arena, and the rest of the players are all familiar faces. “[It’s] the same guys every Sunday,” Kate says, as Derrick and a friend nod in agreement. The friend goes by the nickname “Sem,” an abbreviation of his last name. But he’s quick to agree that, using a little imagination, it might be Ogie Oglethorpe’s backup winger in the hockey classic film, “Slap Shot.” And Sem seems happy to play on the stereotype of hockey players as menacing, puck-crazed goons, before mentioning that he has to get up for work in a few hours, just like everyone else. At this, the players begin walking to their cars, soaking up whatever final drops of hockey glory they can before returning to the crisp air of the real world. Leal, who works in the pro shop at Skylands, did not play hockey in high school because Vernon did not have a team then. Kevin Adams of Sparta also works in the pro shop, mentioning it’s “easier [to play] when you work here.” He meant easier to get on the ice. The players’ appearance - the air of happy and sore exhaustion every athlete cherishes - gave silent testimony to the fact that hockey, whether in the NHL or a once-a-week adult league in New Jersey’s outback, is not an easy game to play. Adams had never played organized hockey before showing up to the open sessions the rink holds a few weeks ago, and though he spends his time on the ice “trying not to look like an idiot,” he is not new to the game. Like many at the rink, he’s a pond hockey legend’ whose dad went so far as to fashion wooden boards for the neighborhood games on the lake near their house. He fondly recalled coming home from Devils’ games only to go out on the lake and shovel fresh snow in anticipation of the next day’s events. He took everything out on the lake, floodlights for night games, an old Jeep Wrangler during an unusually cold year. Like many at the rink, Adams “always loved hockey as a kid.” In a group which comprises “so many different ages,” as Rockwell notes, it is love of the sport, and not delusions of grandeur, that keeps the guys coming back. “It’s a fun sport,” Adams adds, his point underscored by the 30-odd players that regularly show up, despite the less than ideal time slot of 9:45 to 11.45 p.m. on Sunday nights, one of the few time slots available after the rink accommodates the busy practice and game schedules of high school games, which are also popular with spectators. With teams coming together as much through a commonality in sweater color as anything else, it’s hard not to get caught up in a spirit that champions fun over winning. As the night goes on, players drop out one by one, and by the time the session is through, the ice may be as tired as the skaters. A Zamboni lap surely awaits, but technology aside, the open session retains a key pond hockey component - without referees, the game stays as pure as the scoreboards: a single taciturn line displays the time as it creeps steadily toward the closing bell and midnight. The score is nowhere to be found. Costing only $10 a player for the two-hour period, with goalies playing for free, Skylands Ice World, located on Route 23 in Stockholm, has become a hub for local puck-heads looking for a game. And in the end, that’s all that brings them here: the game. Teddy, one of maybe three players Adam says he knows by name, is one of the last to leave. Before he goes, though, he’s sure to mention that he’ll see him outside once the pond has frozen over. After all, it’s another chance to play.