It had been a very ugly night.
It had been a night of swirling emotion in the Boston bar where I watched the Bruins achieve one of the greatest feats in sports history – collapsing in a best-of-seven series after winning the first three games. They had added insult to injury by starting the game up 3-0, and losing 4-3, giving every bored sportswriter in America the opportunity to use words like “poetic” and “microcosm”, an opportunity they all made the most of.
I had spent that night in a bar surrounded by a mixture of Bostonians. The casual fans around a table had obviously just gotten off from work and were ready to lightly enjoy a Bruins victory, or shrug and temporarily care about a loss. The less casual fan two stools down, meanwhile, was going through that delightful ballet that many fans would scoff at in others, and not notice in themselves. Before the game, he had written them off mid-season; by the time the Bruins were up 3-0, he had never doubted them for a minute; and then, when they delivered that astonishing collapse, he had written them off mid-season again.
An ugly night, but the sun rose the next morning all the same on that beautiful, distinct American city. And at 5:30 AM, I was on the streets, ready to capture something of it. And I had the place mostly to myself.