Penguins waddle across warm asphalt sidewalks, in groups, to some common destination. The younger ones stumble about with fresh bed-head. Others carry slogans on bristol-board bent and rolled and hockey sticks buffed clean for an autograph, hopefully. Bird after bird they’re on the move, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Emperor himself. In Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia.

The cup or the man? Who can say which is drawing more people out of their living rooms, hair salons and call-center kiosks on this Friday in August. Whatever the reason, they’re unified in purpose, to take part in an event unimaginable for these streets earlier in the year. But when the Pittsburgh Penguins claimed the 2009 Stanley Cup from the previous year’s champions, the Detroit Red Wings, in a 7 game edger, what was merely possible suddenly became a foregone conclusion. That’s what happens when the youngest NHL captain to ever claim the cup calls your community home. 

As the story goes, Sidney Crosby’s interest in the game began around the time he discovered that home appliances could surrogate for hockey nets. He chose the clothes dryer. At the age of three he learned to skate and at 14 logged enough points (217) to bring his Midget AAA team to within one position of winning the Air Canada Cup. Since then, the accolades haven’t continued so much as hooked vertically: first to go in the midget draft, to Rimouski Oceanic; first to go in the NHL 2005 draft, to Pittsburgh; youngest player in the NHL to score 100 points in a season; Art Ross Trophy winner; MVP Hart Trophy winner. As for the rest, there’s not enough ink in the printer. Nicknames have included “Darryl” (as in Sittler), “The Next One,” and “Sid the Kid.”

The parade route follows a two to three kilometer “L” with an incline, from the bus terminal atop Dartmouth’s Portland Hills, down Cole Harbour Road, then left onto Forest Hills Drive. As early as 9:30, bodies in collapsible lawn chairs began tacking themselves along the curb, five hours before the scheduled start. It’s an odd sight for anyone completely out of the loop. “Look Edna, they’ve come to watch the cars.” But most people know. From Ontario they’ve come. From Quebec, B.C. and the northern states too. And by far from Canada’s Maritime provinces. 

The parking-lots are stuffed with more than legitimate customers today. The business community seems fully aware of what this day means. They’ve posted billboards for Crosby, embracing him in plastic letters. KFC/Taco Bell does its part. The sign facing the parade route spells out “Congrats Sid,” the other side something about a Volcano Crunchwrap. Goodwill is good business. 

The Zellers plaza appears a good place to stop and watch. It’s where Cole Harbour and Halifax’s sister city, Dartmouth, officially meet. At 2 p.m. the metal barricades go up, blocking access to the side streets. The new viewing space is quickly filled by spectators, including a man whose shirtback admits “My drinking team has a hockey problem,” though he walks in a straight enough line. At half past, music marshals the event underway as a military band descends the hill into Cole Harbour, followed by pom pomers. Penguins’ teammate Maxime Talbot is the red herring. From a distance he’s everything the people have been waiting for – a man in a car with a tower of glistening metal, but his is the Eastern Conference prize, the Prince of Wales Trophy. He signs souvenirs and shirt sleeves if the motorcade slows enough, but everyone knows whose day it really is. 

Sidney arrives to a welcoming ovation, standing in the bay of a vintage fire truck. The cup is with him but he doesn’t hoist it. He won’t until he’s reached Cole Harbour Place, the site of all post-parade hoopla. Riding behind the truck are members of his family – mother, father, sister and both grandmothers. What they don’t say is repeated by everyone around them. Good job! Way to go! Happy Birthday! Today is Crosby’s 22nd. Better than Ovechkin! one man shouts to Sidney more than once, a jab at the Washington Capitals forward and scoring rival of Crosby’s since joining the NHL. He smiles and waves. 

For many, a glimpse is enough. They pack up with their best teeth exposed. But for others, the kid on wheels is a mobile Pied Piper. Pockets of spectators are hooked and following, adding to the crush enroute to Cole Harbour Place. What would normally take 10 minutes to drive by car, Crosby is doing in an hour. It’s slow enough for a few well-timed presses of the shutter. When the procession finally arrives it filters into the parking lot like a trail of ants thickening into a pool. Numbers? The media gives head-counts of 80,000 city wide and between 10,000 and 25,000 here, at the recreational complex where Sidney honed his skills growing up. But there are other ways to estimate attendance. Between the jerseys and the Ts, you’ve never seen so much black worn on a 30 degree day.

The stage stands at the far end of the parking lot. Giant screens wing the sides. For those who stay, perks include a Q&A session with the Kid and Talbot, presentations from local politicians, dollar hot-dogs and Canadian rocker Sam Roberts. After a rock music montage of Crosby’s most spectacular goals, he finally lifts the cup to the roar of the crowd. If he’s been accused of fizzling in front of the mic, it’s not a complete exaggeration, but for anyone who values simplicity over va-voom, they would have left satisfied. I had a dream, he says in essence. And you helped make it happen. Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.