For many years, I attended Philadelphia Flyers games at the Wells Fargo Center, although back then it had a different name. I shared season tickets with a friend and my mom and I would cheer on our hockey team there often. When I met my husband we would attend games together several times a month during the season. He also had Wings (indoor lacrosse) season tickets the first few years we were together, it wasn’t unheard of for us to have a Flyers game one night, Wings the next. I can’t imagine doing that now, the energy of youth made it no big deal to arrive home at midnight and get up at 6 am for work.
It was here in this arena that I recognized Rick, where I also saw many concerts. Although I have been to Seahawks games in Seattle and Washington, DC, I have not been to a concert in a large venue like this since I lost my sight in 2012. Much like a Broadway musical, which I used to love, it is very difficult to go to a show in either category now that my vision is so limited. Sure, I can enjoy the music but it is one of a very few things that have lost their appeal.
We used to be big country fans; Garth Brooks, Tim McGraw, Keith Urban were our favorites. We were able to see all three of them multiple times, most of the performances were at the Wells Fargo Center. For Christmas last year, I opened a gift from Mister Rain, a Tim McGraw t-shirt. In the bottom of the box was a paper letting me know we had tickets to his “Standing Room Only” tour in June. My heart dropped. I didn’t want to go and I was so disappointed that my husband didn’t know how I would feel about it. I tried to hide my sadness, thinking to myself that I would wait a few weeks then tell him I would prefer to sell the tickets. The months quickly passed, I never spoke up. The next thing I knew we were driving to Philadelphia one night. I was a nervous wreck about the steps and getting to our seats. I even had Mister Rain count the number of steps on a seating chart online. I had spent so much time at the arena with my mom, my story about Rick had just been published in the Ocean City Sentinel. How the hell was I going to get through this?
As is my MO, I was mad at myself, too. This was a vey nice present from my husband, something in the old days I would have been thrilled about, happily anticipating it for the six months between that morning under the tree and this summer evening. Instead I had been dreading it. That is not fair to me and it certainly isn’t fair to Mister Rain.
We entered the arena as soon as the doors opened, our standard operating procedure is always to arrive at an event such as this before it gets too crowded. We found our section, then walked into the tunnel until it ended, revealing the arena’s interior which I had not seen in over 10 years. I could not view it clearly, but I looked across to the press box where Rick used to be found, I lifted my face to the rafters where championship banners and retired players’ names and jersey numbers hung. My husband, who had been walking ahead of me to find where we needed to go, stopped. “Welcome back to the Wells Fargo Center, Sister Rain,” he said. I teared up instantly, admonishing him for saying such a thing at this moment when I was already emotional. He saw it as a cause for celebration, I thought of it as a slap-in-the-face reminder of what – and whom – I had lost in the last 12 years. I tried to see the steps I was about to tackle. I used to run up and down these same steps during stoppages of play to use the restroom or get something to drink, never giving it a second of thought. Now it had been on my mind for 24 weeks. I handed Mister Rain my cane to free up both hands for the railings I would death-grip and I began. Arriving at our row, I collapsed into one of our seats. “You did it,” my husband said.
I looked around again, a little closer now to the familiar parts of this building I once knew so well. Mister Rain went to get us something to drink, while I sat and recovered from not only the traverse, but the worry I had carried with me long after the Santa decorations were packed away.
He returned, I gratefully drank my cold beverage. We chatted with a young man alone in the row in front of us, we watched the first opening act, then the second. It seemed to go on forever . . . especially when I realized I had made a tactical error by drinking that large can of beer (not a beer drinker except for concerts and sporting events). I had to go to the bathroom. Which meant I would have to do the steps again. I kept looking into the aisle to gauge the amount of traffic, but the fact was with the singer onstage, the entire place was dark which for me means I was completely blind. I leaned over to my husband, “I have a problem.” I told him what was going on with my bladder. “Let’s go,” he said, not realizing I couldn’t see a thing with the lights off. We waited until the instant the performer was done, which seemed like a lifetime, and we made our way up the steps. Going up is infinitely easier for me than going down. We hurried but the concourse was filling quickly with people doing the same as us, as well as getting refreshments before Tim would come on. I have found in situations like this, the cane I use is often plain ignored. The ladies’ room had a line, of course it did, but finally business was taken care of. I once again found myself at the top of the steps. I made it back to my seat, exhausted.
Tim came on and the years melted away. We had first seen him and Faith (Hill) on the Spontaneous Combustion tour in 1996, when they fell in love. My mom loved Tim as much as I did, Faith too, and there in that place we had not only come to for Flyers games but Garth and Tim concerts, I sang and danced for both of us. The video screens are so large and in such high definition these days that with binoculars I can see enough to realize that Tim McGraw still wears a pair of jeans like no one else.
There are some things that will always be as difficult for me as they were on the day I lost my sight. This is one of them. I know I can do the steps and the crowds, I have done them both before. But they are a hazard to my safety every time. On top of this concern, memories threatened to take me down as well. They did not.
At the end of the night, as has always been the case, I left with hardly any voice, sweaty, hyped up, yet drained. It was one of the best shows we have ever seen. I would gladly do it again. I will most likely have the same worries, but I will have to learn to live with that. Even if there are steps or standing room only, I refuse to sit this one out.
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