WINNIPEG, Manitoba – There is an elaborate system of underground walkways here connecting a large portion of downtown.

Not surprising, seeing how tunnels long have been considered an effective way to escape the horrors of captivity.

See how easy it is to make fun of this moose-infested, frostbitten outpost, a place where, just last week, CBC radio – according to the Winnipeg Free Press – featured a story about a local dog that becomes “stressed out” whenever the Jets are on television.

It seems that “Peanut” turns “distraught” and begins panting and drooling while wearing “kind of a vacant stare,” the pooch’s owner explained.

And how, I ask, is that different from the average Winnipegger?

I’m being serious, folks. I could mock this city and its denizens relentlessly while hammering beers until 3 a.m., local authorities deciding to permit the bars to serve for an extra hour on game nights, somehow, evidently, aware the Ducks would give Jets fans even more reason to drink.

But doing that is simply too easy. I mean, I once managed to devote an entire column to belittling New York, and no one there – unlike a fan did here Monday – ever showed up for a hockey game wearing a wedding dress.

Here’s a little secret: Those of us who sometimes engage in trash-talking the opposing city during these playoff series often do so because it’s easier than actually working.

Think about it. Who needs to slave over a well-crafted paragraph when you can just find a way to rhyme something about Winnipeg with a word like booger and be done with it?

It’s also a time-tested way to fire up the people on the receiving end, goosing them into a response. That’s assuming, of course, they have the Internet, which I believe will reach this part of Canada as soon as the next covered wagon arrives.

The more difficult task during these assignments is to venture out into the city with an open mind and open heart, to sample what it offers and, in the case of shivering Winnipeg on Tuesday, overcome the howling wind with the same persistence exhibited by the snot streaking from my nose.

After just a couple days here, believe it or not, I have to admit I’m sort of digging this town and its earnest, devout people.

But then what’s not to like about a place where they put gravy on French fries and have nightspots like The High and Lonesome Club, a music venue that sits stubbornly in an aging building on Main Street with a marquee reading “Culture Not Condos.”

I’m not going to pretend I’ve delved deeply into the soul of Winnipeg because, until arriving here Sunday night, I’d never been near this city. Besides, much like the ground here, Winnipeg’s soul still might be frozen.

But I do know there’s something to be admired about constructing a quaint, minor league ballpark right downtown, on a river and up against elevated railroad tracks that are still active.

On my way to MTS Centre and the Ducks’ off-day practice, I saw a man in a wheelchair. He had come outside to smoke. It was – and I mean this literally – freezing, probably 28 degrees, before wind chill.

The guy was wearing shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. I’m not sure why, exactly, but I found the image endearing, probably a fairly representative example of the genuine spirit of the locals.

At the same time, I was buried in layers, the first of which could have been the intact pelt of an adult polar bear and I still would have been cold.

Grasping the communal pride that will be on display again Wednesday for Game 4 – all the Jets fans draped in white and chiding the Ducks in unison, sometimes profanely and often humorously – isn’t all that tough.

This seems like one of those places where, if you have what it takes to live here, you respect those who have what it takes, too. There can be a real bond found in shared experiences, especially when those experiences also tend to thicken skin.

I don’t know, maybe I’m generalizing way too much. I’m just scraping the surface, after all. But it is interesting that, back in February, after Evander Kane demanded to be freed from here, the Jets indeed traded him. They sent him to Buffalo, a city even Winnipeg rightly mocks.

Now, I’m being awfully kind today, huh? And it’s not because the Ducks still could mess up this series, forcing us to return for a Game 6 in a city that, during a five-year run that ended in 2011, had the distinction of being the “murder capital of Canada.”

It’s also not because the people who live in Winnipeg include Dustin Byfuglien, who plays for the Jets, at least when he isn’t sucker-punching for the Jets or cowering from having to take responsibility for his behavior for the Jets.

It’s because Winnipeg, in barely 48 hours, has grown on me like I never expected.

Either that or it’s because I know, if necessary, there’s always an escape route nearby.

Contact the writer: jmiller@ocregister.com