from Mark Spector of Sportsnet,
Every once in a while, the right team lands in the right town, playing the right game in front of the right people. And the result is magical — even for a jaded old hockey writer and a bunch of “never too high, never too low” hockey players.
Here in Smashville, one of those Gary Bettman landing spots where we questioned how the Predators would steal enough fans from NASCAR and college football, that mix has come together perfectly this spring.
The Predators aren’t wine, cheese and a string quartet, man. They play the game like the guy over at Tootsie’s bends his six strings — you can hear ‘em coming, and after a night at Bridgestone your head hurts the next morning.
“Preds Hockey” means they’ll trade paint with anyone, and fly around the ice at Bridgestone like the Tennessee defence. And they fight — even in the playoffs — which folks here approve of even more than we do up in Canada.
In return for this Tennessee hockey, their people cheer. And stand. And drink. And have more chants, with 17,000 folks in perfect unison, than the other 29 NHL rinks put together.
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