Every bar and restaurant in the North End was packed. Most had lines. Tonight was Game 7. The city was alive. It could taste victory. The Bruins had a chance to reclaim the Stanley Cup – after a 39 year drought.
Mid-way through my first drink, the Bruins scored. 1-0. The bar celebrated and the cheers echoed into the streets.
Outside, the moon was bright and full. A lunar eclipse halfway across the world and a special night in Boston. Thousands of miles West, the Bruins were kicking ass.
It was high tide. I had never seen the Charles so full. The water was up to the sidewalk.
Towards Government Center the police were assembling with riot gear. They seemed in good spirits.
Back at the bar, the game was in the 3rd period. The Bruins were leading 3 -0. The clock was winding down. Someone shouted: 10 minutes! Everyone cheered. 7 Minutes! Everyone cheered. Jesus, are they going to do this every time?
With 3 minutes left, Vancover went empty net. 30 seconds passed and Boston scored again: 4-0.
One minute! screamed a drunk middle-aged man in a hockey jersey.
10, 9, 8, …okay we win! Bruins win!
The city erupted. People spilled into the streets, moving like a pack of migrating wildebeests. The elated Bruins faithful formed a collective whole and pushed towards the TD Garden: home ice.
People poured from the Arena: drunk, chanting, singing, and hugging complete strangers.
We marched together, thousands fueled by alcohol and victory. We grew larger with every minute.
The flood reached a clearing by a subway station. People stormed on top of the terminal building. They danced on the rooftops. Police ignored them. Who cares? Bruins win.
Fireworks lit up Boston’s skyline. Party in the streets. Car horns blared like trumpets.
“We did it!” someone screamed while giving me a high five.
Well, I didn’t do anything – but the point remained.
The city was again a champion.