orange crush
It’s that time of year. When my alter ego makes an extended appearance through spring. I become a puckhead once again. Try as I might to temper this need to follow any professional organized sport, I veer to the left of my closest friends and family and harbor a mild obsession with penalty minutes, board-crashing and power plays. There’s a lot of yelling. At the television, at box scores, at my dismay over roster changes and injuries.
Over the last few years, I’ve seen my love and passion for all things hockey start to emerge again. And although I choose loyalty to a team that makes me frequently want to heave large objects out of the window while they’re playing, I can’t deny my obvious love for them as well. I wrote last year about a love-hate relationship with my Flyers. I’m not a fair-weather fan. There’s no such thing in Philadelphia. All around me I see Colts blue, but I anticipate the Orange Crush.
Over the last few years, I’ve seen my love and passion for all things hockey start to emerge again. And although I choose loyalty to a team that makes me frequently want to heave large objects out of the window while they’re playing, I can’t deny my obvious love for them as well. I wrote last year about a love-hate relationship with my Flyers. I’m not a fair-weather fan. There’s no such thing in Philadelphia. All around me I see Colts blue, but I anticipate the Orange Crush.
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