I hoped to find a summer internship with beneficial experience that would look good on a résumé and have relevance to my Sport Management major. The father of a high school friend put me in contact with a man who works in Quality Assurance for the Nashville Predators. My job required me to work every event at Bridgestone Arena from the middle of May to the beginning of August. Landing this internship was like catching lightning in a bottle because during my time there, the Nashville Predators went on a historic playoffs run, winning the Western Conference Final and playing to Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Final, and I was in attendance of every game from May 15th to June 12th. The playoffs run brought an electric energy to Nashville unlike ever before and impacted the city in a way that will not soon be forgotten.
The last time I saw the city unite in a similar fashion to the NHL playoffs was during the 2010 flood. Rain fell continuously from May 1st-2nd, causing the worst flooding the city and surrounding areas had ever seen. Homes, schools, businesses, and iconic Nashville landmarks were destroyed, some beyond repair. From this disaster arose the now unofficial Nashville motto: I believe in Nashville. Merchandise, including t-shirts, posters, mugs, stickers, and much more, were sold with profits benefitting relief efforts. Two murals of the motto were painted in two locations in Nashville, now a necessary photo spot for locals and natives alike.
For most of the games, I stood at the entrance to hand out rally towels. After the CSC staff scanned patrons’ tickets, I would extend my hand to give them a gold rally towel. Rally towels are used when the Preds need extra support in an intense part of the game; the crowd twirls their rally towels in unison, creating a vortex of cheers and tiny gold fuzz. Reactions to my offering ranged from “Oh yeah, I definitely need a rally towel!”, to which they would immediately give a few test twirls, to a sarcastic “Oh yeah, I need another one to add to my collection of 200 already”. Many people had the idea to use the towels as wallpaper. As the season progressed, standing by the entrance became a sentimental affair. As the stakes got higher and the Stanley Cup seemed more attainable, people’s excitement for the games understandably grew. Games 3, 4 and 6 of the Stanley Cup Final were the apex. Once the tickets were scanned, adults would begin squealing and jumping up and down like children on Christmas morning. “We’re in!” “This is real!” “It’s happening!” filled the air. Children would do the same, looking up at their moms or dads or whoever provided the golden ticket under the brim of a Predators hat, their oversized jerseys flopping around in glee. Being present is an oft discussed topic in a time of social media and a connected world, but in these moments, people did not want to be anywhere else in the world. They were giddy to be in Bridgestone Arena in June. It was monumental to simply be in the building. They wanted to smell the beer and funnel cakes. They wanted to be shocked by the 90 degree weather outside meeting the frigid air of the arena. They wanted to spend a small fortune on nosebleed seats.
Why were people so excited to be here? Yes, professional sports championships are some of the most sought-after tickets and are special events to attend, but this. This was bigger than just a championship. This was bigger than winning games and media coverage and merchandise sales and relevance. This playoff run was special.
Change is everywhere in Nashville. The population is surging, new apartment complexes are seemingly on every street, coffee shops are replacing old banks, parking (when available) is minimum $10, ten minute car rides are now twenty five minutes, rush hour begins at 1pm and ends at 7pm, pedal taverns of screaming bachelorette parties are not just normal but integral to our economy, and Nashville natives are becoming an endangered species. Sitting in traffic, I often become a senile old man, wanting to shake my fist out my car window ordering all the non-Tennessee license plates to “Get off my lawn!”.
The Predators did not have a Stanley Cup Final worthy season. They were the last team to earn a spot in the playoffs. Being the last team to earn a spot in the playoffs, their first opponent was the Chicago Blackhawks. The six time Stanley Cup Champions and unofficial rival of the Preds Chicago Blackhawks. The Chicago Blackhawks are to NHL fans what Alabama Football is to SEC fans: a common and successful enemy. Star rookie Kevin Fiala broke his femur in the first game of the 2nd round against the St. Louis Blues. Powerhouse center Ryan Johansen injured his left leg in Game 4 of the Western Conference Finals against the Anaheim Ducks, requiring emergency surgery. Two star players out for the rest of the Playoffs. Team captain and hockey veteran Mike Fisher also left Game 4 due to a head injury and did not return to action for three games. Time after time, the circumstances were not promising.
But even as the odds continued to declare an end to the season, the Predators continued to interrupt fate. They swept the Blackhawks. Not only did they defeat them, they did not allow a single Blackhawk victory and won the series in four games. Injuries befell roster essentials, but lesser known players stepped up to the plate and continued to win games. The Predators’ success did not make sense, but nevertheless, it was happening.
Something else was happening in Nashville. For the first time since the Tennessee Titans went to the 1998 Superbowl, a Nashville professional team was relevant. Gold flags peppered store and restaurant windows. New designs for Preds t-shirts flooded retail stores. Yard signs with Gnash, the team mascot, popped up along with the team’s motto “Stand With Us”. And stand we did. Watch parties for the away games first filled the plaza right outside the Nissan Entrance to the arena. Hype accumulated to the point of watch parties occurring for home games, taking place in Walk of Fame Park behind the arena with food trucks lining the sidewalks, and then by the Stanley Cup Final, Lower Broadway, Nashville’s hub of bars and honky-tonks.
The effect of the victories was both tangible and emotional. When the Predators were playing, it was common knowledge that whatever was happening needed to wrap up quickly so you could get to a TV soon. It wasn’t “Are you watching the game tonight?”; it was “Where are you watching the game tonight?”. I attended my high school’s graduation but was watching the game on a friend’s phone in the back when it began at 7pm, then rushed to her house to watch after giving my congratulations to friends. It surpassed excitement and grew into a cultural phenomenon status. “Go Preds” became a common greeting and farewell. Nashville was in a collective good mood. Frustrations melted into the hype. Overpopulation suddenly became an asset to having a stronger fan base. Strangers became friends to share in excitement and comfort in loss. Expensive parking and traffic jams did not matter as much as experiencing this underdog team achieve the inexplicable. Bandwagon fans were plenty, but prior hockey knowledge and loyalty did not matter because this team was making history now. Election drama, legislation, religious differences, class differences, and lifestyle differences did not matter because we were all together in one endeavor: cheering our Predators to a Stanley Cup victory, game by game.
By the time the Predators made it to the final round of the playoffs, many fans began to say that it did not matter if the team won the Stanley Cup. Of course we wanted them to win, but there was no justifying being upset when the team had played so well. We were proud. Sports are a business and there was no denying that the Predators’ franchise and Nashville as a whole benefitted financially from the success, but we do not watch the games because we know that it pays salaries. The Predators are our team from our city. The hype spread across the state to places like Knoxville that normally pay little attention to non-Tennessee Volunteer sports. We, the city of Nashville, claim the gold and the blue and the fangs. Those players, our players, live in our apartments, serve in our communities, sit in our traffic jams, and play in our arena.
Nashville is not a “hockey city”. The heart of hockey lies north of the Mason Dixon line in places like Toronto, Montreal, Chicago, Boston, and Pittsburgh. High school hockey does not dominate our Friday nights and if any Tennessee university has a collegiate team, they are not well known. Die-hard hockey fans from hockey factory towns were scratching their heads when the Predators won the Western Conference Final and media coverage began. We were a new phenomenon: southern hockey. It was a special chance to broadcast beyond our borders that we are not a one stop city. We have our country music and our honky-tonks, but we also have a special bond with the Northern tradition that is hockey. With so many people moving to our city, our culture expands, celebrating what made Nashville the place that it is, and incorporating the best parts of the places people are coming from.
The Preds’ playoff run proved not only exciting for Nashville, but also nodded to the greater virtues that sports showcase. We watch games because their victories are our victories. We like to think of ourselves as players, being smashed into walls and having the puck scooped away from us. We work hard because no one is going to hand us what we want and sometimes people metaphorically knock us down, either out of defense or anger. Our strengths turn out to be our downfall. When the underdog gets a shot, beats that strong team, and gets to a point of victory by the sheer force of hard work and perseverance, we imagine a reflection of ourselves getting our shining moment. This ability to relate to a sports team is a unifying factor in not just Nashville, but also across the country. Because of this strong emotion, tragedies such as natural disasters provide an outlet for support, providing a commonality among a plethora of differences.
The pinnacle, the crowning moment, the absolute best part of sports for me is unexpected last second victories. Hail Marys. Buzzer beaters. Winning a meet by one point. March Madness is the greatest time of the year. It is in those moments that we see the truest form of grit: playing until the game is over. Grabbing destiny with your own hands and saying, “I am not finished”.
The Pittsburgh Penguins won the Stanley Cup in Game 6 in Nashville. It hurt. It hurt to watch, it hurt to listen, it hurt to breathe the air. With all of the amazing games they played over the past month and a half, it seemed almost impossible for the Predators to lose on our own ice. Two minutes left in the game and the Penguins are up two goals. I prayed for that last second victory. Then, applause bellowed through Bridgestone Arena. Fans chanted, “Thank you, Predators”.
That was a pure moment. In the face of defeat, the city of Nashville appreciated the hard work these men poured into the game and the memories and hope it gave us. It seemed like the playoffs would never end because its invigorating excitement and right before our eyes they did, and it was not gold jerseys hoisting Lord Stanley into the air. In that moment, I was proud to live in Nashville because we loved what our city did during this historic playoff run. We united. We did not allow setbacks or traditional takes on what a hockey town should be to determine how we were going to cheer for our team. We were irrational to think that we could make the playoffs, beat the Blackhawks, win the Western Conference, and not get swept by the Pittsburgh Penguins. The players said, “We are not finished”.
We are not finished. Nashville will continue to grow and continue to have problems, but as long as we have a team to claim and games to watch, we’ll have a reason to gather and discuss solutions.
Claire's Contribution 