As a Philadelphian caught up in our 2010 Flyers’ hurtling toward a Stanley Cup dream, I am tugged by a bittersweet memory of my late brother Marty.  Marty lost a brief battle to cancer last February at the age of 46, and the light went out not only on a vibrant, fun-loving personality, but on one of Philadelphia’s most devoted fans.  He loved his sports, playing football and baseball with a mighty strength (despite a then-undiagnosed problem with fused ankle bones), and worshipping his beloved ‘Iggles’ (Eagles, for those unfamiliar with City of Brotherly Love patois), Phillies and Flyers.  A serious car accident his senior year at La Salle College High School curtailed any future collegiate athletic endeavors, but he could still be a fan.  For years he held season seats in the upper stratosphere of the old Veterans Stadium (for those who remember the precarious final concrete row at the Vet, Marty used to brag that he was right under the American flag, and when our national anthem was played, people would stand and salute him).

 

And when we both later migrated to Orlando in the 1980’s, Marty would regularly make the trip to Clearwater to watch his Phils warm up.  Hell, he even showed beleaguered Tampa Bay some love, understanding as only a Philly guy can that you’ve gotta love your team no matter what.

 

During the 1974-75 Flyers season, I was just starting high school; Marty was two years behind me.  We were caught up in Broad Street Bully fever along with the rest of a city that had seen hard knocks through an economic recession, the Great Suburban Migration (yeah, we were part of that) and racial tensions.  The rag-tag rejects of the elite, original NHL, cast off to the new expansion teams, perfectly represented the vibe of mid-70’s Philadelphia.  We didn’t care that they were Canadian.  They were rough-and-tough, missing most of their teeth, looked like they had been mauled by bears, and we loved them.  Marty was probably one of the more passionate fans of that era.  Along with a group of neighborhood friends (one of whom grew up to be 1988 U.S. Olympic hockey stand-out, and later NY Rangers goalie, Mike Richter) and with the help of a friend’s dad and his hose, they’d ice down a local church parking lot and stage some serious hockey competitions.

 

Most importantly, my brother remains the only individual I’ve known who could sing the entire 1974-75 Flyers’ fight song (sung to the tune of Yale’s): “Cheer, cheer for Bernie Parent…Eddie Van Impe and Andre Dupont! Bobby Clark can move that puck, so can Macleish and Kindrachuk…” [author’s note: if anyone can remember the rest of this tune, please let me know].  And he sang it with great gusto (he would also belt Kate Smith’s ‘God Bless America,’ the Flyers’ good-luck charm, on occasion and perhaps after a few a cold ones).  Of course, he was also known to sing Bruce Springsteen and the Batman TV theme song in his sleep.  But that’s just Marty.

 

It’s not surprising that Marty would gravitate toward this most gritty, gutsy of sports.  Like me, he was born in Cork, Ireland and adopted to the U.S.  He was just genetically engineered for hard-scrabble sports. One of my mother’s earliest memories from when Marty first arrived in 1964 was a visit to Ocean City, NJ, where an elderly beachgoer, watching my two-year old brother play in the surf, commented to her, “That one’s going to be a football player.  Look at the shoulders on that little guy!”  He had that bang on.  Marty loved rough-and-tumble sports, especially the occasional Gaelic football games our Galway-born grandfather would take him to in New York.

 

So as I cheer this current crop of sleeker, better-protected and less pugilistic Flyers on to a Stanley Cup win, I just can’t help but remember Marty.  Several years before he died, after I’d moved back to the Philly area, I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Bob “The Hound” Kelly at a company wellness fair.  The Hound was a damn-the-torpedoes, full-speed-ahead left-winger during those halcyon years and, like many of the original Broad Street Bullies, he remained tied to the Philadelphia area, giving thousands of hours to charity and delighting fans like me at local golf outings and other events.  These guys stay devoted to the area and the people who loved and supported them, even though hockey purists would have them painted as the nightmare of the 1970’s. Bob Kelly signed a player card for me, and of course, I had to get one signed for Marty as well, who had worshipped Kelly’s fightin’ spirit even beyond the more renowned donnybrooking skills of Dave ‘The Hammer' Schultz.  Later that year, I presented Marty with the card on a visit to Orlando.  He was as excited as the 12-year old schoolboy he’d been when he first lionized these warriors.

 

At Marty’s memorial service, I decorated a collage of photos with the requisite Eagles’, Phillies’ and Flyers’ logos.  Had he been buried instead of cremated, no doubt team jerseys from each and the treasured Bob Kelly card would’ve accompanied him (and maybe the old seat back from Connie Mack Stadium he and my cousins had procured).

 

I’m sure the seats are better now than 700-level Vet nosebleed section for Marty.  I’m sure there are no commercial breaks to interrupt the play, and there’s a steady stream of beer and Irish songs to accompany it. Cheer, cheer for our Flyers, Marty, and help them on to another year of glory.  I’ll be watching the series remembering you and your balls-out approach to life, just like those scrappy Canadians of 1974.

 

Oíche mhaith, codladh sám, mo bhráthair.