“Hey man, we cut another hole in the glass before the game.”

One of the rough-looking Civic Center employees is talking to me. That never happens. And he’s pointing to an impossibly small area about 50 feet away.

“You might have to get to it from underneath the bleachers.”

Uh, okay. I’m at a Peoria Rivermen hockey game, their last regular season home game of the season. 9,000 fans are packed into the arena, the air is chilly and the ice is slick. I leave my usual, behind-the-net spot where a hole is cut into the protective dasher board glass and try to find my new home.

This is disgusting. And dark. I’m tiptoeing around spilled nacho cheese and beer bottles still oozing sticky amber booze. There’s a real danger that I’ll crack my skull open. Remember those jungle gyms from childhood’s past? Brains all over the ground with one missed step.

I see a tiny bit of light from under the seats. I crouch down and… yes, there’s a hole. And about a foot of clearance. Holy cripes.

I’m not a claustrophobic man by nature, but I do possess a healthy respect for tight spaces. There’s a reason why I don’t climb into places where I could get stuck. I might get stuck.

I imagine getting wedged in tight enough that I’m not able to cry for help. The cheers and jeers of hockey hooligans would serenade the end for this guy. I’d die hearing profanities and body checking. If brave, I might try a “127 Hours” effort. But I subscribe to “never leave a man(‘s body part) behind.”

I slap my head on a girder and realize I have no camera gear. So back through the debris I go, pushing several cameras and a 200-400mm monster zoom under the opening into what might be a fissure in the Earth itself.

My turn. I slither on my belly, cleaning the floor with each inch traversed. I’m doing them a favor, these lazy bastards! One final push and I’m alive… in a cage.

This new hole in the glass was cut at a perfect spot from a photographic standpoint: six feet back from the goal line, with a great view of someone slapping that puck straight into the net.

But the arena configuration means that the seats don’t meet flush with the dasher boards in all places, leaving awkward gaps for stupid photographers to be forgotten.

I need a chair. So I get a chair. Back through the gap I go. A woman screams as she realizes where I am.

And then it’s off to the races. I work and worry about peanuts and pucks and tennis shoes, all hitting the back of my head simultaneously.