Black and gold

Black and gold.

Before I knew those uniform colors meant the Pittsburgh Steelers, they stood for one -- and only one -- team. The Big Bad Bruins. They still do as far as I'm concerned.

I'm going to take a moment away from the usual point-less point of this blog -- the Patriots -- and pay tribute to Boston's hockey team. A team that is in the conference finals for the first time in about 20 years. They are now just seven wins away from bringing the greatest trophy in sports back to the city. Here's hoping this very likable team (even Claude is growing on me) can pull it off. It would be a great way to start the summer.

BUCYK: Hail to the Chief.

Long before I was a dedicated tailgater, I was a devoted Bruins fan. Hell, in 1970 (when I was 8) who wasn't? It was always hockey first, football second for me. Baseball and basketball were a distant third and fourth. I've been to about 40 or 50 Red Sox games in my life and only about five Celtics games. But I've been to more than 250 Patriots games and well over 100 Bruins games. I prefer my sports cold and tortured.

My days in 1970, '71, '72, '73, etc. were simple. Get up, go to school, come home, do homework quickly, and play street hockey till Mom called me for supper. On weekends it was just play street hockey. One-on-one, three-on-three, five-on-five. It didn't matter. Me, Jimmy, Gator, Mike, Chipper, Paul, Butter, and Ricky would play game after game till our legs were sore. Then at night I'd sit next to Dad on the couch in front of the black and white television and turn on Channel 38 and watch the B's. (''Score! Bobby Orr!'') I can still hear the first notes of ''Nutty,'' the TV theme song for the games.

But it was going to Bruins games that I remember best of all. Of the great memories that I have from being a Boston sports fan, there are none stronger and richer than those from the old Boston Garden. I can still smell the place. I can still feel that long walk up flight after flight of stairs in my calves as the anticipation built. I can still hear the organ playing and the sound of my sneakers sticking to the beer-covered floor. I can still hear the arms banging on the bottom of the second balcony that hung just a few feet over those of us wedged into the very back of the first balcony. I can still feel the old barn shake after a goal.

CHEEVERS: Scar face.

It was there I saw Bobby Orr race down the ice, leaving opponents chasing his shadow as #4 changed the game right in front of our eyes. Terry O'Reilly (my all-time favorite) wipe blood from his face just in time to score a game-winner. The classy Jean Ratelle net an epic overtime goal against the hated Canadiens in the greatest series every played ('78-'79). Gerry Cheevers notch a few more stitches on the greatest goalie mask ever made. Ray Bourque burst onto the scene as rookie of the year and go on to become one of the greatest defensemen who ever played. Cam Neely invent a new position -- power forward. And it was there that I saw fights -- on and off the ice -- that were as much a part of the game as passing and stick-handling. So many great memories.

Like the very first game I saw in person.

It was the spring of 1973. I was 10 years old. The city was being torn apart by the court-ordered busing crisis. I saw my oldest brother come home after school bloodied from a fight sparked by the soaring tempers. The word lock-down became part of the school day. It was an interesting time to grow up. The B's were a big part of that time.

The Bruins were defending their second Cup in three seasons and were one of the greatest offensive machines the sport has ever seen. Orr, Espo, Bucyk, Westfall, Pie, Cash, Hodgie. They dominated opponents and the league's scoring leader board. And the hearts and minds of the city. It was a hockey town.

Another part of my daily routine was driving with Mom to the train station to pick Dad up after he got out of work in the art department of Prudential. One day he got in the car and told my mom that one of the printers that they worked with had given him two seats five rows from the ice for the Bruins game the next night. Against the hated Rangers. I edged myself closer to the front seat. Mom asked the question that the youngest of four children was thinking. "Who are you taking?"

"Ya, Dad. Who?" I asked, my face now leaning over the front seat.

"I think you are old enough for your first hockey game. Don't you?" he answered. I spent the rest of the ride home rolling around the very back of the station wagon (seat belts? what seat belts?) with a tennis ball, pretending to be Phil Esposito, my favorite Big Bad Bruin.

ESPO: Center of my attention.

I can still remember the train ride into Boston as if it was yesterday. Dad pointing out all the places as they passed by the window. The elevated Orange Line may have cast a shadow over the city streets below for decades, but for a 10-year-old the view was awesome. We switched over to the Green Line and as the train pulled into North Station I got my first view ever of the Boston Garden, a place I would spend much of my teenage years in. What was a dump to some was a palace to me. We walked with the crowd into the stadium, my dad keeping his hand on my shoulder the whole time. It was my first experience of that feeling of the pre-game buzz of the fans as the anticipation of the game built. It was one of my first "grown-up" moments.

We made our way down to our seats near one of the face-off circles. Me with my popcorn and souvenir Bruins puck already in hand. I got chills from the roar of the crowd as the national anthem ended. (I still do.)  I got chills when I got my first close-up look at Mr. Robert Gordon Orr. I got chills when Espo scored to put the Bruins ahead for good. Pie McKenzie smashed a Ranger into the boards right in front of me and the two started brawling. Pie whupped him. The crowd went nuts. So did I. My dad gave me a slightly concerned look when he saw just how much I enjoyed the fight.

Late in the third period Espo lined up for a face-off against Walt Tkaczuk right in front of me. The two had been battling all game. Each time the linesman went to drop the puck Tkaczuk would whack Espo's stick with his, something centers do to cheat to try and win the draw. Four times in a row Tkaczuk hit Espo's stick. Four times in a row Espo whacked his stick back. Four times in a row the linesman yelled at them to knock it off. Finally, after the fifth time, Espo had had enough.

"If you hit my stick one more time," Espo, my idol, yelled. "I'm going to take your bleeping stick and shove it up your bleeping ass."

A lifelong hockey fan was born.