The Philadelphia Flyers Saved My Saturday
The Philadelphia Flyers hockey team became my Saturday salvation. The day was the darkest and dreariest of the year thus far, frankly, since winter began. The forecasters called for the first significant snowfall of the season, but with the temps still a few degrees too high, a frigid and steady rain settled in over the Delaware Valley which collided with the post-holiday-empty atmosphere in an ever-so-perfect storm of bleakness. If you live in the Northeast, your options are few and easily can fall into the “stay in the house, cook, organize closets, put away Christmas decorations” doldrums. Philadelphia sports are a healthier alternative, especially with teenage sons in the house collecting older adolescent dust on their unshaven chin stubble, basking in the nothingness of their umpteenth week at home between college semesters. Rousing them out of the basement, off of video gaming, mindless scrolling, was made more seductive through the promise of first row seats at the 1pm Flyers game. There have been murmurings of late about a “rising” from our neglected step-child South Philly sports team. Relegated to the back seat of popularity as Philly sports fans have been distracted by winning seasons in football, baseball, and basketball, ice hockey fans have suffered from neglect. After laying dormant and barely registering a pulse since 2010, suddenly word of a Flyers resurrection has been reported in hushed tones and hopeful cocktail party conversations. Could it be? Is it possible the ice is melting on the frosty, Han Solo-like glory of yesteryear? Well, our family was about to find out. We raided our closets to get ready, brushed away the moth balls on our sweatshirts and jerseys. Look, this relic is from 2010! Or maybe 1997! Could this be ‘85 hoodie? Before the term “hoodie” entered the pop culture lexicon? The Flyers haven’t updated their logo in, well, ever, so you can dig out the tired, the tattered, the hungry of your merch and still be socially acceptable in the stands. In Philly, when it comes to the Flyers, flashes of orange are a necessity. Even if you’re attempting the “middle aged, fashion-forward mom of older teens but still a Philly fan just trying not to look like my older teens with a jersey” look, orange is a non-negotiable. And lucky for me, I proudly pulled a shock flame orange sweater out of hiding, black jeans, white turtleneck, and black Converse. Lady fan lite. My eighteen year old, never knowing a time in his personal history when the Flyers were an actual thing, had not even a t-shirt in their name. A stop at the rally shop was in his future.
It was 12pm when we arrived at the Wells Fargo Center just as the snowflakes were getting fat and the gray sky darkened and took on a more menacing shade of “January, I’ve arrived”. We located our seats as the teams were hitting practice pucks and marveled immediately at the majesty that is front row center ice spectating in the NHL. It is a treat beyond treats to be able to almost see the wisdom teeth of players as they chase the puck, crash into each other like Army soldiers in the sandbox, and race like monster speed demons on those tiny little blades. One thing my son noticed was the sheer size of hockey players. “Mom, they’re massive!”, was the reaction from the wide-eyed college boy as a Calgary Flame passed by us after a practice shot in a flash of red Bounty Man on skates. He was right. Television doesn’t quite capture the largess of the healthy looking young that populate the NHL these days. Except when they smile. Still true that some still don’t have teeth. Hockey still sends chills up my spine that way. You can be casually admiring a muscular young athlete's perfect bone structure and masculinity only to have him meet your gaze with a goofy smile like a six month old baby, all gums. The game is physical, aggressive, tough, and manly. Testosterone on ice. Sitting up front, we got all the glory of the plexiglass slam show. Every few minutes a gaggle of players would grind each other, their sticks, and the puck right into the glass six inches from our faces like a head on collision, with our own self-imposed whiplash to match. What a thrill! And wake-up! To be in the game as we were, to almost feel the icy flecks of the rink on our faces and have hands ready to catch a wayward, high-flying puck is a privilege I, and my son, had never known. He was getting into it and asked for a sweatshirt, bright orange. He slipped it over his head quick and proud. In the last few years, Philly sports and their winning ways have morphed this South Jersey born and bred sapling into a Philly guy, with all the agony, ecstasy, and crater-like chip on his shoulder that comes with it. It helped that the Flyers were playing excellent hockey this day. It also helped that we were so close to the goal and could capture the minutiae of the tiny puck’s slippery trajectory into that goal not one, not two, but three times. It somehow snuck through the Flames’ goalie and seven hundred pounds of Transformer-like leg pads. Score, score, score. Flyers fans erupted each time with characteristic Philadelphia rejoicing, attitude, joyful arrogance, and over-exuberant confidence (Stanley Cup this year!). The cherry on top, though, is the brawling. My son wanted to see a hockey fight and he got his wish. In fact, he actually got several. Jumpy, wound up, trash talking guys landing punches, piling into heaps, faces smeared into the glass with helmets popping off and referees grasping collars of oppositional gorillas. The fans roared and, although the NHL doesn’t let blood spill anymore, they allow for the pressure valve to be released just enough for the sake of theatrics and keeping the game’s integrity of intensity.
In between periods, my son noticed the orange flags hanging high in the rafters of ancient Flyers Stanley Cup history. It was 1973, ,1974, 1975 when the Broad Street Bullies carved their loveable niche into Philadelphia sports history with their brazen, tough guy, blue collar victorious circus on ice and raw, toothless, winning grins. My dad loved the Flyers and he is the reason I even know the history. I was an infant when they tore through the town winning the hearts of everyone in Philadelphia and its environs. My father was a South Jersey boy, like my son, but he was just as intoxicated by the masculinity of the sport and the blood-spilling it required to win. Dad regarded sports, facts, and history much like a statistician. My son is equally analytical. My father talked about the Broad Street Bullies throughout my childhood and here, the grandson he would never meet, is just as enthralled as he was, front row, center ice, fifty years later. Dad would have loved this. Sitting next to my son, contemplating that in my mind, made me happy. I felt that by encouraging my son’s enthusiasm, I played a part in honoring some small sliver of dad’s immortality. I immaturely shunned sports as a young girl. I was too feminine, too girly, too ungrateful to the meaning and philosophy of athletics. It took me a little longer to come around. But come around, I have, and by witnessing my sons carrying on the sports crazed tradition in my father’s stead, I have gained an exhilarating appreciation for the way sports can excite, engage, and make miracles. Grandfather and grandson united that day amidst the brawls, the flying ice, the gummy grins, and the fightin’ will to win, if only in my own memory and mind. Dad never got to see it, but the magic we make in our heads is fairly or unfairly saved for those of us that still walk the earth, wanting to weave the flashes of our days and experiences into a kind of therapeutic poetry. I don’t know about the Stanley Cup this year but one mother’s cup was filled last Saturday. Thank you, Philadelphia Flyers.
