Washington, D.C., isn’t exactly a hockey city. N.H.L. fans can watch the Capitals at the Verizon Center, but suitable locations for playing a casual game, whether on ice or on pavement, are scarce: the area’s few public rinks can be overbooked and hard to reach; most streets with the requisite lack of traffic are far too narrow. But in May of 1995, Pennsylvania Avenue, between roughly Fifteenth Street and Seventeenth Street—the 1600 block—was closed to traffic as a security measure, in the wake of the Oklahoma City bombing. That closure was formalized six years later, after September 11th. Inline skaters quickly flocked to the wide-open boulevard, and soon established a pickup game named after its most famous fixture: White House roller hockey.

On an early February morning, ten men gathered in front of the White House, with plenty of spare balls and warm layers, to take advantage of the dry, if below freezing, conditions. The National Park Service, which oversees maintenance for this stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue, is fairly aggressive about de-icing. Unfortunately, for the players, the chemical spray—less damaging to the granite paving stones than salt and more effective in especially cold conditions because it reacts to moisture by producing heat—also leaves behind residue that makes the surface treacherously slick until rain washes it away. That was an obstacle, not the cold itself. Nobody ever claimed hockey lovers are sane.

Much like D.C., the game sees its cast of characters turn over every few years. Jim, the current organizer and one of the longest-tenured players, started in 2005; none of the original participants is still around. These days, weekend games are set (or cancelled) via a Google Group that anyone can join. Players come and go with little fanfare; everyone is on a first-name basis, and shared biographical information is limited to players ’ home towns (everyone is from all over) and ice-hockey experience (which extends, for some, to having competed as a semi-pro). If families are discussed, it’s to provide an excuse for missing an upcoming game.

White House hockey faces all the nuisances that plague a typical neighborhood game—the occasional car, balls that stray into neighboring streets—and then some. Tourists on bikes are ranked as the most troublesome; the Segways, at least, wait for the action to shift. Several police horses patrol the area, and sometimes they find unfortunate locations in which to relieve themselves.

For all of Pennsylvania Avenue’s unique obstacles, the heavy security is not one of them. “It’s public space. You’re allowed to do whatever you want with it,” Jim said, his observation punctuated by a nearby protestor shouting obscenities at the White House. The guards seem to appreciate the game, Jim continued: “A lot of these officers, they wait around for something to happen, when rarely anything happens. We catch them watching us. We’ve had them walk by and give us a ‘nice save.’ ” Fights are rare, but, when two hotheads recently decided to go at it, police converged within seconds. The ready availability of emergency medical assistance can be useful, too. Jim recalled one full-speed collision that injured two players: within minutes, there were “no less than twenty first responders.” Another player chimed in while tying his laces, “It’s probably the safest place to play.”

Safety is a relative term in hockey. One woman strolled through the game while texting; her purse and phone were sent flying through the air. An errant shot pelted a tourist in the chest. Nearly every tourist seems to consider the scene a curiosity of sorts, a site that is more reliable than the President, a casual roller-hockey game thriving in close proximity to the seat of American executive power. Canadians sometimes play hockey on the frozen Ottawa River, near, but not next to, the Prime Minister’s residence. Downing Street, in London, is blocked off by iron gates. At the Kremlin, so much as straying from the sidewalks or designated crossing areas will yield a whistle and a stare from the police. Especially since 9/11, there are plenty of American lockdown zones. But somehow White House security agents will return lost balls that have gone over the fence; whenever they have to stop a game—to investigate a suspicious package nearby, for example—they’re almost apologetic.

One elderly woman, bundled up against the cold, carefully tiptoed along the sidewalk, muttering, “What the hell is this stick doing in the walkway?” She managed to pass safely—not such a difficult task on a thirty-five-foot-wide sidewalk—and went on with her day. The goalie made a nice kick save and cleared the puck down to the other end. It looked as if the curb would stop it from skipping past the Eisenhower Executive Office Building’s fence, adjacent to the White House lawn, but, at the last second, the ball took an unexpected hop and disappeared into the grass. Small clusters of tourists let out a collective sigh louder than any I’d heard at the Verizon Center in some time. Someone fetched another ball —the last one—and the game continued.

Photograph by Aaron Gordon.