When I arrived at the Wally Cook Arena one early Tuesday morning in November, Jerry Bolton was at the door waiting for me. He half-scuffed half-skated out into the snow, wheeled and, while never letting the door go, he seemed, I swear, to be attempting a curtsey. “Apres-vous,” he grinned, his face a thick mass of stubble and gristly tendons, and at least half a set of teeth. He had old blue Roots sweats on, double baggy, and a John Deere T-shirt, some beat-up Tiger sneakers green enough that you could argue he was trying to coordinate. A tattoo of the sun on the inside of his right forearm, the blue rays smudged, from age maybe, or the constant clinching.