Five Hole: The Making of a California Bear Legend By John Harrington

Some kids join the Bears. Some kids pass through the Bears. And then there are the chosen few, the ones who look like they were destined for the storied rink in Burbank, as if the cold air had been saving a breath for them and the black and gold sweaters had been hanging in the rafters with their names already stitched in. These are the kids who don’t just step onto the ice. They step into a calling. Steven “Five Hole” Vartanian is one of those kids. From the moment he touched the sheet at Pickwick, it didn’t feel like a beginning. It felt like the rink had been waiting for him.

He was on the ice at three years old. “I started hockey at four,” he told me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Pickwick wasn’t just his first rink. It was his first language. It was where he learned how to fall and how to rise, how to laugh and how to compete, how to be a Bear. Some kids learn the alphabet. Stevie learned edges.

But the spark that lit all of this came even earlier. His first hockey memory is the 2014 Stanley Cup Final, Kings against Rangers, the night Los Angeles lifted the Cup in double overtime. He was tiny, barely old enough to understand the rules, but old enough to understand chaos. “When Alec Martinez scored in sudden death OT, I remember everyone screaming in my house,” he said. “And I ran to my room crying because I didn’t know what was happening.” That was the moment hockey imprinted itself on him. That was the moment the fuse was lit. The roar that scared him awake would one day become the roar he created.

Now hold that image of Alec Martinez flinging his gloves into the air as he soared away from the Rangers’ net, his face lit with the kind of wild, disbelieving joy that only double‑overtime immortality can ignite. Behind him, the Kings bench emptied in a tidal wave, the arena roaring like a living thing as Martinez disappeared under a pile of teammates and pure, unfiltered euphoria. Somehow Stevie’s dad was able to convey to him, in all that bedlam, what this moment meant and how important that goal truly was.

His dad became the quiet architect behind the scenes. “My dad always talked to me about getting stronger and trying my best,” Stevie said. “He’s definitely my biggest inspiration.” His dad is a computer engineer, a builder in every sense of the word, someone who designs systems, and programs from nothing but logic and grit. That same instinct to build, to create, to refine, found its way into Stevie too.

And the Bears added their own layers. He remembers Coach Mark Halliday guiding him on his very first day, setting the tone for what it meant to be part of this family. Coaches like Cody Staves shaped him early. “He cared about us having fun,” Stevie said. “That’s what made me love the sport.” Joy first. Fire later

Every hockey story has its first bruise. For Stevie, it arrived in first year Peewee. “I was on the third line and didn’t play much,” he said. “That motivated me to get better.” He sharpened his blades, tightened his chin strap, and went to work. He poured himself into his shot. “That was my main focus,” he said. That focus would matter later. It would become the thing that defined him.

It showed up in a shootout against the Santa Clarita Flyers, a do‑or‑die moment with a playoff berth on the line. Coach Justin Dyke tapped Jack Halliday and Stevie to take the first two shots. Stevie skated out calm and quiet, then slipped the puck straight through the goalie’s legs. No deke. Nothing fancy. Cold blooded. Just a clean, fearless five hole. “I didn’t plan it,” he said. “I just read the goalie. I saw it open and took the shot.” The bench erupted. The nickname stuck. Five Hole was born. A move that simple only works when a kid has ice in his veins. And with that one deft shot, the Bears punched their ticket to the playoffs -- the only 2010 “minion” team in a division full of 2009 big bad wolves.

But the season that would define him almost never happened.

In the summer of 2024, the Bears AA 2010s were drifting apart. Kids were exploring other clubs. Families were weighing new options. The roster felt like it was dissolving in slow motion. And then something shifted. Coach Jeff Bain stepped up and convinced the boys to stay together for one more run. He reminded them of who they were, what they had built, and what they still had the chance to chase. Stevie remembers hearing the passion in Bain’s voice. He was sold. And decided to stay. One by one, the players committed. The roster re‑formed. The group tightened. The season was saved before it even started. A team that almost scattered became a team that refused to break. Coach Justin Dyke knew this was the Last Chance Saloon before this team and its coaches would eventually go their separate ways. He believed second place was not an option. The players were tired of being the Best Man and never the Groom. They started to believe.

That belief mattered because the Bears were not supposed to win the state championship. A few seasons earlier, they had been the favorites and fell short. OCHC took the banner. The heartbreak lingered. And they lost some key players. This time, OCHC was the powerhouse. They had beaten the Bears already that season. And they knew the Bears were missing their studs. OCHC had won many banners over the years. They knew how to hang them.

But something had changed inside the Bears locker room. They played for each other. They trusted the plan. They trusted the work. They trusted their coaches, Justin Dyke, Jeff Bain, and Stewart “Stewie_ Ramirez. The room felt different. Tighter. Hungrier. And a whole lot of laughter. These kids were having fun.

And so there they were, underdogs in overtime of the state championship against the team that had their social security numbers over the years. OCHC owned the Bears so much they claimed them on their tax returns as dependents. At the end of regulation, the score was 0–0. The ice leaned in favor of OCHC. And the goalies were unbeatable. But the Bears netminder, Lane Cohen, broke the laws of gravity that day. He did things that should be banned by USA Hockey. He was that good. It was sudden death now. Everything on the line. It felt like the L.A. Kings in double overtime in 2014, the moment that once terrified Stevie now circling back to meet him. Destiny, so cheeky, likes to show up at the party every once in a while, and tap you on the shoulder.

And just like Alec Martinez years before, the puck found the right man, number 11.

Stevie was the scoring leader in CAHA. He was the last player OCHC wanted touching the puck. But there it was, on his stick, top of the slot, delivered on a platter by Hrach Chtrkyan’s face-off battle, with the season hanging in the balance.

“I was just in the right place at the right time,” Stevie said humbly. “I saw it open and took the shot.”

The puck didn’t just go in. It ripped into the net like a trapped tiger trying to claw its way out of a nylon cage, snapping the twine back with a violence that made the whole rink gasp. It was the kind of goal that doesn’t just score. It announces something.

It declares something.

It leaves a mark.

Silence.

Then the crowd erupted. “When it went in, I looked up and saw the whole crowd,” he said. “I’d never felt anything like that.” The underdogs won. The heartbreak reversed. The banner came home. A moment that once frightened him became the moment he owned.

That is hockey. That is childhood. That is the Bears.

“It was the greatest moment I have ever felt… to be with my teammates on the ice that day.”

They eventually went to Nationals and had a strong showing, beating a top team from Virginia, tying another, and dropping a hard‑fought battle to the eventual champions.

Stevie’s next chapter took him three thousand miles east to Tilton School, a place he first learned about through the Bears Prep Camp. “Coach Peter Torsson has a great reputation for introducing California kids to prep schools back East,” he said. Tilton wanted him. Tilton communicated. Tilton made him feel seen. So he chose the Rams.

And when he arrived in New Hampshire, he wasn’t alone. His Bears teammate, Dillon Harrington, was right there with him. Two California kids. Two Bears. Two lifers walking into a new world together. On campus, they are known as the California kids. They eat together, walk to the rink together, play mini sticks against the Montreal boys together, and get their hair cut by Doug, the unofficial Tilton barber. It isn’t just a friendship. It is a tether to home.

Stevie is thriving. Of course, he misses In N Out and isn’t sold on snow, but he is building a second family in Knowles Hall. “I’m close with everybody in my dorm,” he said. “The friendships are the best part.” And on the ice, he has already made his mark. He is the leading goal scorer on Tilton’s Varsity B team, proving that his scoring touch travels just fine across three thousand miles and a whole new world of competition.

His goals are as clear as they are ambitious. He wants to reclass, make varsity, play three more years, earn a junior spot in the NAHL, and chase college hockey. Boston University would be a dream come true. And if hockey isn’t the road, he has another path waiting for him. “My dad’s an engineer,” he said. “I’ve always loved building things. Engineering could be a real possibility.” The builder’s instinct runs in the family.

Stevie “Five Hole” Vartanian isn’t just another Bear who made the jump east. He is the blueprint. He is the kid who turned heartbreak into a banner, who helped hold together a team that almost scattered, who ripped a puck into the net so hard it felt like the rink itself exhaled. He is the kid who carried the Bears when it mattered and now carries that same fire into New Hampshire, into Tilton, into every rink he steps into.

The story that started in Burbank is nowhere near finished. And the next banner he chases might be hanging in a rink three thousand miles from home, but the roar behind it will always sound like California.