Amidst the roaring cheers and the incredible spectacle of the worlds fastest sport, a lone beer stands tall, its price tag implying that this particular beer must be the greatest beer in the entire world. After all, why else would it cost that much?  
A cold companion, clad in plastic, ambrosia from the gods themselves, demanding nothing except a heavy toll on the wallet. Like a cut sheep to the alter, one wonders how much this sacrifice is actually helping. As the players clash on the frozen stage, pucks and teeth flying everywhere, the overpriced amber liquid becomes a symbol of indulgence, a fleeting luxury in the realm of competitive fury. 
Sipped slowly, lovingly, its bitter but bubbly taste echoes the financial sacrifice made in the name of momentary satisfaction, until the other team scores and it ends up knocked to the floor, spilling like a gunshot wound. As the arena explodes in excitement, the overpriced beer becomes a quiet observer of both the game’s intensity and the cost of fleeting pleasures.
Blurry eyes that can’t see the puck. 
A drunken lout who doesn’t give a fuck.
Would they buy another one? Did it taste as good as its price demanded?  No. 

Which is why you pregame. Beer is so much sweeter right before you get into the taxi and enter the bellowing halls of a hockey game.
They do not need to charge that much. You do not need to arrive sober.
You just need to cheer louder
Than the man with the overpriced plastic cup.