Author: Jennifer Furner

While Grand Rapids may be a bustling metropolis in its own right, once you get outside of the city limits, the landscape turns rural very fast. Since I grew up in the country, this is one of the most appealing aspects for living in this area. I have museums and restaurants and big festivals at my disposal, but I also have fields and rivers to play in when I want to get away from the crowds.

I didn’t know how diverse the agricultural landscape of Michigan was until I moved to the west side of the state. Where I came from on the east side, we grew corn and soybeans and wheat. My husband, a westsider, grew up next to a vineyard with an apple orchard in his backyard and a cherry orchard down the street. The proximity to Lake Michigan provides a perfect climate for growing fruits of all types.

So when summer comes, we stock up on all the delicious treats our state has to offer. And lucky for us, there’s one place in town where we can get it all: the Fulton Street Farmers Market.


The Farmers Market has been in business since 1922. Four days a week, local farmers from all over West Michigan gather to sell their crops to the people of Grand Rapids.

I love coming out to the market on Saturday morning. My husband and I get out of bed and throw on yesterday’s clothes. We park on a side street in front of someone’s house because the parking lot is always a madhouse, but we don’t mind, because this affords us the chance to walk a block or two in the morning humidity. We dodge people on the sidewalk coming from the market who carry overflowing grocery bags or cute toddlers (or both). Many people walk along with us, insulated coffee cups in their hands and a sleepiness in their eyes.

As we approach the market, we are confronted with the loud murmur of many voices. People wander in all directions. There is a food truck at the entrance of the market that sells breakfast items and a building with an open garage door where they sell milk and ice cream and meats. There is always a musician playing in the open square that leads to the vendors. This Saturday, it was a small group of children playing string instruments, plucking songs like the “Irish Washer Woman.” Adults stand and watch or sit on the steps nearby and listen. The music always adds a festive element to this morning tradition and energizes the shoppers.


The market received a major upgrade two years ago. Before that, it was a very basic structure. It used to only consist of an aisle that was framed in on both sides with wooden benches for farmers to display their wares. If the farmers wanted shade or protection from weather, they had to drape a tarp or a sheet over their stand. It looked more like a tent city than a Farmers Market. That didn’t stop anyone from coming, of course.


The old market structure; photo courtesy of mlive.com

The fact that it’s been renovated has only made buying fruits and vegetables a little more luxurious. Now there is a roof so vendors don’t have to provide their own shelter. The aisle has been widened so more people can shop at once without bumping into each other. Bathrooms have been upgraded. The design is open, friendly, beautiful, and welcoming.

The new structure helps the market feel more permanent to me; I feel like it gives the market longevity. The Farmers Market obviously wasn’t about to go anywhere. It’s been going on for nearly 100 years, so I’m sure I would keep going for 100 more despite what the structure looks like. But now it’s not just a little wood and metal. Now it’s brick. It’s built into the landscape. It shows that the city is committed to keeping the market in the same location, and it’s adjusting to the needs of both the farmers and shoppers, keeping them comfortable enough to continue conducting business as they always have. When renovations aren’t necessarily needed, but they are done anyhow to provide more comfort and ease, it shows that that the city cares about this tradition and wants to not only keep it going for those longtime patrons, but make it approachable for newcomers to experience.


Photo courtesy of Fulton Street Farmers Market

My husband and I make our way down the long aisle, flanked by vendors on both sides. We evaluate the stands on the right side, noting prices and quality of produce, and when we hit the end of the aisle, we turn around and do the same on the opposite side. We devise our plan, make a list, and go visit the stands we were impressed with to pick out our weekly produce.

We carry overflowing bags back to our car, dodging the sleepy people on the sidewalk who are heading toward the market. This week we scored apricots, blueberries, sweet cherries, sweet corn, green beans, and potatoes. I considered the peaches and the tomatoes, but didn’t want to buy everything at once. No matter. We’ll go back next week and get a new batch of fresh fruits and vegetables.

*For more information about the Fulton Street Farmers Market, visit their [website](http://fultonstreetmarket.org/)*

There are a lot of things about the European lifestyle that I am on board with: afternoon siestas, short work weeks, generous paid vacation, drinking all day. All these ideas I can stand behind.

One thing I never approved of, however, is the European love of soccer. I always believed that, as an American, I was supposed to hate soccer. So I professed to hate soccer, even without knowing anything about the game. My ignorance was a manifestation of the hate; just the thought of learning about it was too boring for me. I imagined it to be an extremely slow-moving game. The field is big, and it must take forever for someone to run from one end to the other. And come on, it’s nearly impossible to accurately kick a ball into a tiny net.

Europeans, though, are intense when it comes to soccer. While in Italy, some friends and I went into a salsa club for some latin dancing. There was no dancing that night, however, because a World Cup game was being played. So the salsa club became a sports bar on account of there would be no customers unless they could watch the game. Unfortunately for us, Italy was playing the U.S. that night, and our team was in the lead, so our small group of Americans hurried out of the bar just as quickly as we had meandered in. Who knows what may have happened to us if we had been noticed.

With the success of the U.S. women’s soccer team in the World Cup this past month, however, America seems to be changing its attitude about soccer. Locally, it seems Grand Rapids changed its opinion long before that.

This year, the Grand Rapids Football Club, a semi-professional minor league soccer team, debuted in Grand Rapids, and Friday was the last home game of the inaugural season. Seeing as it was our last chance of the year to experience this new addition to our city, my husband and I grabbed some tickets online and headed to Houseman Field downtown, a stadium owned and used by Grand Rapids Public Schools for fall (American) football.

When we entered the field, it looked like a full house already, and fans were still pouring in. The team’s motto “One City, One Club” honors the people who invested in creating the team. Over 600 people contributed to an online crowd-funding campaign. Those contributers and many more have become loyal fans, donning t-shirts with the GRFC crest and hanging blue and white scarves around their necks, even in the 85-degree heat.


My husband and I squeezed onto a bit of available bleacher bench. While we waited for the game to start, we noticed a blue blob of people on the opposite side of the field chanting, beating on drums, and waving Grand Rapids city flags. Frankly, they were impossible to ignore.

Trumpets sounded and the teams walked out onto the field, greeted by thunderous applause and cheering. White smoke spewed from firework canons ignited by the big group across the field. We cheered for our team and boo-ed the competitors from Muskegon, a lakeside city 40 minutes to the west.

The game itself wasn’t boring at all. It really didn’t take that long for one person to run the length of the field, especially when they were passing and kicking and heading the ball to their teammates. The interaction between the teams reminded me of hockey, my favorite sport. Instead of using sticks, they kicked the ball out from each other, often pushing each other and knocking each other to the ground. There were even a couple of shoving matches to keep the crowd pumped up and on their feet.


Photo credit: Bryan Bolea

I still couldn’t shake my interest in the blue blob of fans across the field. They did not stop cheering, chanting, singing the entire game. They never sat down. They never stopped waving their flags or beating their drums.

The woman sitting next to me had a GRFC scarf and a soccer ball tattoo, so I figured she might know who this loud and rowdy group was. I leaned over to her and asked.

“They’re the Grand Army,” she informed me. They meet at a bar before the game and then all march together to the field. Apparently, this is another tradition in the world of soccer, in addition to the team crest and the supportive scarves.


Photo credit: The Grand Army

The Grand Army, however, seems unique unto itself. Its motto, “Motu Viget,” which is also Grand Rapids’ motto (something I just learned), is a Latin phrase meaning “stength in activity.” This group recognizes that great power can come from people who do things together. Their group and this soccer team are living testaments to that. The city wanted a soccer team, so they came together to fund it, and now they band together to support it. It shows not only ingenuity but responsibility. The people have created this. Now they will take care of it.

I like to think that the citizens of Grand Rapids share this attitude not only toward soccer but also toward the city. Grand Rapidians love their city, they will work hard for it, and they will take care of it.

One city, one club.

See you next year, GRFC.

*For more information about GRFC, visit their [website](http://grandrapidsfc.com/)*

I quit my job. Today was my last day. I am now unemployed.

I won’t get into the specifics of what my job was like or why I left, although I will say that I left on my own accord. I had gone as far as I could go and there was no future for me there. I’m 31 years old; I don’t want to waste my time. I’m ready for a job that I’m interested in, that challenges me, that (at the very least) I enjoy (since that’s never been the case in the decade I’ve spent in the workforce).

To be unemployed is liberating. And terrifying. I literally have no idea what my life will look in a month, in six months, in a year. What will my next job be? Will I be a project manager, an event coordinator, a fundraiser, an administrative aid, a marketing manager? I am somewhat qualified for all of these titles.

Or I could go a completely different and unorthodox route. I could focus more on teaching college English. I could start freelance writing. I could take a part-time job at some shop around the corner and try to write a book. I could go back to school and get my PhD.

As if those weren’t enough options, I’ve also been suggesting to my husband the idea of moving. We love Detroit, and Detroit is full of opportunity right now. Or the corporate office of my ex-job was impressed with me and may offer me a job in New York City; we could move there. A good friend of mine will be moving to New Mexico next month to try something different and start over; wouldn’t it be fun to do that, too? There is nothing tying us down to Grand Rapids, really.

Nothing tying us down, that is, but ourselves. We love it here. It is our home.


I moved here in 2002 to go to college. It was my second choice. I wanted to live in Ann Arbor and attend the University of Michigan. I wanted to walk on the quad and study in a library that was a hundred years old. I wanted to walk to Urban Outfitters and watch football games in the Big House. That was my dream all throughout high school. But U of M was too expensive for me, so as a consolation prize, I followed my best friend to Grand Rapids.

Granted, the campus of GVSU is NOT in Grand Rapids. It is in a suburb of the city surrounded by fields. But in my four years there, I ventured out to the city more and more and became familiar with the area. During my senior year of school, my best friend and I moved into an apartment in the northeast corner of the city, at the end of what locals call Medical Mile (aptly named for the string of specialty hospitals that line Michigan Street). From there, we could either walk into the heart of the city or take a more scenic route through Grand Rapids’ historic Heritage Hill neighborhood. This is where I learned the city and learned to love the city. I was face to face with it every day–face to face with its buildings, its sounds, its people, its energy. The city was and still remains full of an unexplainable energy. And it energizes me.

The city has changed so much in my decade of living here. So many new restaurants, new buildings, new ideas. Its people are inventive and passionate; they want to make a difference and they want to make that difference here. I’m constantly pleasantly surprised by what this city can do.

So although I don’t know what my life will look like in a month, in six months, in a year, I know where I can watch it all happen: here in Grand Rapids.


For the next 30 days, I’m going to explore this city I call home, get even more familiar with it, and share all of its gems and secrets with you. So welcome to Grand Rapids, everyone. Hope you like what I show you.

In my dreams at night, if I’m in a house, it’s always my childhood house, the one I grew up in and lived in for 18 years. I haven’t lived in it now almost as long, and I’ve lived in several residences since. But it’s always that house in my dreams.

In sleep, I see its dusty gravel road. Cars kick stones into our yard and leave lingering clouds of dirt in the air. We owned an acre of land that was longer than it was wide and backed up to a stretch of forest full of mulberry and oak trees; year-round, the ground was covered with leaves that crunched underfoot and exposed your presence to anyone within earshot.

Across the road was an open field, usually as dusty as the road. I don’t remember anything growing there. Fields defined and surrounded our town, fields tall with green corn or short with soybean leaves. Large yellow combines rolled slowly through the straight rows of produce.


It was always a little unnerving for me, to be out in the quiet, the solitude, the remoteness, the darkness. In the dreams I have, it’s usually the setting for nightmares.

Now that I’m older, the fact that I lived there seems like a dream, a figment of my imagination. Growing up, I couldn’t wait to leave it. So when I grew, I left. It is not my home anymore.

I have a home that I own, that I paid thousands of dollars for so I could say it was mine. I mow the grass and dust the shelves and vacuum the floors. I have a bedroom that I share with my husband, and I sleep there with him every night and dream about another home.

When I have plans to see my mother, I say I’m going home. She doesn’t live on that dirt road anymore, though. She lives in a town and in a house I never really claimed as mine.

When it’s time to leave my mother, I say I’m going home. I live in a city over two hours away, a city I’m not from, but a city I’ve adopted, a city I’ve learned to love, a city I care for and cannot bear the thought of leaving.


On weekend mornings, I often wake up before my husband. We sleep with the windows open, and I lay still and listen to cars driving by on the busy city road. Rubber tires hum on the black asphalt, wet with morning dew or an all-night rain. The sound escalates as the car approaches and then fades away. I close my eyes and pretend the humming is ocean waves, building up into blue mountains and then fizzling apart into bouncing bubbles, lulling me back to sleep.

In Hawaii, the waves kept me awake, crashing against a sea wall made of black lava rock right outside our window. It wasn’t a gentle, soothing sound. It was a violent explosion as walls of water slammed against concrete. It was relentless, like bombs dropping from the sky evenly, one right after another, destroying everything. I wore earplugs to subdue the merciless onslaught.


At all hours of the day, there were surfers out in the water, attempting to harness a wave’s power for a 10-second thrill ride. They laid flat, bellies on boards, waiting for the perfect combination of speed and height. They’d dunk under waves that were too big or bob over the top of waves that were too small. I often wondered how they could tell one wave from the next, how they knew which ones they could ride and which they couldn’t. But then the right one arrived, and they paddled with their arms to get on top of it, pushing themselves up so they stood on their board, letting the crest of the wave take them as far as they wanted to go, then falling into the sea and letting the wave continue on to crash against the rocks and splash up into the sky.

When I was young, I would play with the waves as if they were friends. They’d crash against my legs and my stomach, splash my face with cold water, and I’d gasp and giggle. I’d act the part of the sea wall, attempting to hold my ground as a wave rolled in, letting it knock me over back into the lake. And I would do an underwater dance as my arms and legs floated uncontrollably in the undertow, only to plant my feet in the soft sand below and rise out of the water, ready to face the next one. After hours of wrestling the water, I’d crawl out onto the beach and collapse on my towel, completely exhilarated and exhausted.

Photo from [Stephane Lacasa](http://www.stephanelacasaphotography.com/index.php#mi=2&pt=1&pi=10000&s=9&p=1&a=0&at=0)

My husband and I are planning excursions for our upcoming vacation to a tropical island, and while all the activities sound really fun, they also sound really frightening.

We’re talking about going snorkeling, kayaking, and deep-sea fishing, only I’m scared of the ocean, of what in the ocean might eat me, of getting seasick, of drowning. We’re planning on taking a van trip up to a mountain summit, but I’m scared of getting car sick, of getting altitude sickness, of throwing up in a van full of strangers. Don’t even get me started on ziplining–I’m scared of heights, of whizzing along a tiny cable attached to another tiny cable hundreds of feet up in the air.

One of my coworkers recently sympathized with my fears; she felt similarly when she went paragliding. With paragliding, you have to run to catch air, and if all goes well, the chute/wing gets lift and you go soaring over a beautiful canyon. If all goes poorly, you jump off a cliff and you fall to your death.

Of course, it’s not as hit-or-miss as that. She had an instructor to tell her when to run, to stop her from jumping if the air wasn’t right. But a leap of faith was still required. She had to trust that the wind would catch her. Not even the most experienced instructor can be certain of the wind. It has a mind of its own, or rather, it has no mind at all.

She said the hardest part about the experience was tricking herself into jumping off the cliff. Everything in her body wanted her NOT to jump off that cliff, because it’s against human nature to fling yourself towards certain death.

Once in high school, my biology class experimented with discovering our own blood types. This required stabbing our thumbs with tiny spears that came in sterile paper wrappers. As a person who hates both needles and blood, this seemed impossible to me, but there was no way out of it (believe me, I tried) outside of accepting a failing grade (which I was not prepared to do, being an honor roll kid).

(I would imagine they can’t do this experiment in schools anymore for a number of reasons.)

So there I sat, my right hand menacingly holding the tiny spear over my left thumb. But I couldn’t get my right hand to move. It was frozen. I couldn’t convince my body to hurt itself.

Eventually I took a deep breath, closed my eyes (probably a bad decision on my part) and heaved the spear toward my thumb. A little red ball of blood dotted my skin. And I felt happy, relieved, accomplished that I did it, even though I was afraid.

It’s an odd sensation, being proud of making myself bleed, of hurting myself. But it meant that I could finish the assignment, that I wasn’t going to fail, and that I was going to learn not only what my blood type was but how to “type” blood in general. I could now move forward instead of sitting still.

I’m not getting a grade, though, for going snorkeling or driving up a mountain. And even with the most trained professionals, there’s still a possibility for danger in these activities. So why do people voluntarily take these risks with their lives?

And I guess the answer is to explore. To learn more about ourselves and our world. Because if we don’t take risks, then we sit still; we can’t move forward. If we let fear control us, we won’t experience anything. We have to risk our lives in order to live.

I know I’ll be scared when I clip that harness onto the tiny cable or when it’s time to get into the water. My body will probably try to tell me that I’m making a mistake, that I really don’t want to put myself in harm’s way. But I will ignore it. I’ll take a deep breath, close my eyes, and jump.


Holding my luggage in front of me, pushing it forward with my leg as I walk, I awkwardly waddle down the narrow aisle of the airplane cabin, trying not to whack any already sitting person in the knee or in the head with my load. It’s an aerobic experience just trying to find my seat, and then another workout as I heave my bag over my head and attempt to stuff it in the small, crowded overhead compartment. I sit down out of breath.

I always offer the window seat to my husband. I don’t like to feel any more closed in than necessary. In the confines of the small cushion I’m allowed, the armrests digging into the tops of my thighs, I struggle to cross my legs and attain a more comfortable position. But it is impossible with the proximity of the seat in front of me, and I cross my ankles instead.

There is no space to move. I cannot stand up all the way without hitting my head on the overhead compartment. I cannot stand up at all when the seatbelt sign is on. I cannot use my mobile device. I have to wait until the crew is ready to serve drinks before I can enjoy a refreshing beverage. I cannot do anything on my own time. I cannot make my own decisions. I’m stuck in a tin can with hundreds of strangers thousands of feet up in the air.


When I finally have a cold drink resting tediously on the tray table, vibrating and bouncing with the turbulence, I realize my book is in my bag, stowed under the seat in front of me. I pick up my drink off the tray, secure the tray on the back of the seat in front of me, dig into my bag for my book with one hand while trying not to spill my drink with the other hand, put the book in my lap, release the tray, and then finally set everything on the tray. Another elaborate exercise.

A little boy kicks the back of my seat. His sister whines loudly.

Yet through all this, I am calm. I am in my own little cushioned seat with my seatbelt buckled loosely against my lap. It is like a private sanctuary. Barely anyone can see me. Barely anyone knows me. I have to be here, but I have absolutely no responsibility. I can read. I can play mindless games. I can watch a movie. I can nap, which I never do at home. There is no task that I’m avoiding. Nothing needs to be done. All I have to do is pass the time however I like. What a rare gem in this adult life.

I do not like swimming in the ocean. There are too many things that live in the ocean that could eat me or maim me. I don’t always like swimming in the lake, either. I often can’t see my feet, so who knows what is lingering underneath in the great deep? When I was young, maybe six years old, we went camping on Lake Huron. The lake is filled with big round boulders. I held onto an intertube, and when I kicked my feet to propel myself forward in the water, my toes would touch the smooth cold slab of rock. I believed I was kicking whales, sharks, underwater dinosaurs that would chomp off my feet as payment for disturbing them. I floated all alone, far away from my family, too scared to kick my feet in order to make it back to shore.

I much prefer the comfort of a swimming pool, where I can see my feet at all times. In our backyard, we had a large round above-ground pool with a bright blue liner. I put on my googles, held my breath, and investigated every inch of the pool. My mother called me a waterbug and said I had webbed feet. I belonged in the water.


While on a tour of Italy with my travel agent mother and 40 strangers, I was feeling queasy from riding the bus all day through the countryside. When we returned to the hotel, my mother went to church, but I went up to the rooftop terrace to the pool. I slid myself into the cool water from the edge until it covered my head. Like a baptism, whatever evil plagued my system was cast out and I was cured.

Water has always had healing powers for me. And in that way, my interactions with it are somewhat religious. It frightens me but it can also soothe me. It absolves me from my earthly life and transforms me into something new. If humans evolved from fish, it’s no wonder I wish to return to the place whence I came.

I lean against the foyer wall and let my forehead rest on the cool plaster. It throbs with a headache. My stomach rumbles low but loudly. It is trying to digest the fast-food cheeseburger I picked up in a rush on my lunch hour. I had brought a salad with me, but when I thought of eating it, it was unsatisfying.

The temptation to slump onto the couch and watch television seems irresistible, but I have already forsaken the salad. So I change into my workout clothes and descend to the basement where we keep our exercise gear.

Shoelaces tied and hair pulled back, I step onto the treadmill. I put on my headphones and swipe through the playlists on my smartphone. I select something upbeat, hoping the rhythm will energize me. I press “play” and turn the volume up.

A woman’s confident voice floods my eardrums and a strong drumbeat resonates in my hips, which start to bump out to the side as I place one foot in front of the other on the moving belt. I make a desperate effort to keep time with both the treadmill and the rhythm of the song, but they are not the same speed, and I have to do a half-step cha-cha move in order to keep on the beat.

The cha-cha step wins me over. My arms no longer swing at my sides but are in line with my shoulders, as though I were salsa dancing with a partner. I shake my shoulders, and my breasts flail chaotically under the constraints of my sports bra.

I hit the “stop” button with a determined thud and leap off the belt onto the floor, music still pounding in my ears. There is nothing in my mind but the thump of percussion and that confident voice provoking me to move, move now!

I thrash my arms side to side as I jump up and down. I’ve completely gotten off the beat of the music; I’m not listening to it anymore. All the energy inside me, all the stress and tension from the day, all the aspirations and goals I desperately want to achieve are released in this tumultuous moment. I scream the lyrics at the top of my lungs, gasping for breath in between jumps.

I am casting out the demon within me. This is my exorcism.

The song ends. I am panting through a big open-mouthed smile. Another song begins.

This time, my movements are more methodic, more melodic, more controlled. The demon is gone. I can dance as I wish. Memories of ballet classes and high school dances and choreographed routines flood my memory. My feet remember the steps.


Recessed lighting splashes my shadow onto every wall. Neither my frazzled hair, now falling out from its ponytail, nor my pudgy skin is discernible in the reflection on the drywall.

With one swift movement, I extract the cloth rubber band from my hair and the strands fall to my shoulders. I shake my head back and forth in time to the beat and the damp ends of my hair whip at my face and sting my cheeks. I close my eyes and laugh gleefully. Running my fingers through my hair, the warm stench of perspiration fills my nostrils, and I delight in the sweet and sour smell of my body’s hard work.

I dance with my shadow now, attemtping to seduce it. I thrust my pelvis and run my hands up my sides. You want me, I tell the shadow. I am sexy. But you can’t have me. I’m too good for you.

I turn my back on the shadow and flick my hair.

The song ends. The lights flicker and I hear the groan of the garage door crawling upwards. I collect my hair and replace the cloth rubber band. I wipe my sweaty face with the back of my hand. The door opens and my husband steps in the house. I peer up at him from the bottom of the staircase.

“Hello, dear,” he says. “What are you to?”

“Just exercising,” I reply simply, a little embarrassed that I was almost caught. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

I look back into the basement and smile at the experience I just had. I found a new workout, yes, but I found more than that.

I leave my headphones on the table and turn off the light. The walls go dark and the shadow disappears. I pause for a moment, then climb the staircase.

*What makes you feel free, helps you forget the stress of everyday life? What makes you feel most like yourself? Leave me a comment. I’d love to know!*

[image found here](http://www.graphix1.co.uk/2011/09/01/creatively-outstanding-shadow-photography/)

I’ve been watching the Red Wings playoffs for over a decade. Every year the season starts with hope and anticipation. How far will they get? What saves will our superhero goalie make? What hard hits will our veteran players crush their opponents with?

During a college summer internship at a General Motors transmission plant, we piled into a small break room washed out by florescent bulbs; the windows that looked out onto the factory were grimy from years of cigarette smoke. Above a wall of vending machines hanging in the corner was a 20-inch tube tv. Men with greasy mustaches and mullets, dirty t-shirts and ripped jeans, huddled with us clean, naive college kids, all eyes locked on the small screen. With minutes to go, we all held our breath as one of our players flung the puck down the ice; we watched it slowly glide past the red posts of the empty net. Those still working watched us through the dirty glass silently jumping up and down in celebration.

One of the movie theaters in town showed the playoff games on the big screen. Every seat was full. People cheered and booed and groaned and gasped together as our team got close to scoring or close to getting scored on. A player approached our goal and smacked the puck toward the net, but Chris Osgood swept his arm and caught it in his wide glove. The room erupted in cheers and high-fives.

I worked second shift and got home about 11pm, when the game should have been over, but that year the playoff games went into triple overtime. I got home from work and got to watch a whole other hockey game. We stayed up until 2 in the morning, fighting sleep, to see the final outcome.

We don’t invest our money in cable. There’s nothing good on television, besides hockey, that is. So we park ourselves at sports bars, on friends’ couches, anywhere that gets us a view at game time and gives us a hand to high-five when that airhorn blows.

*What’s your favorite sports team? What are some of your favorite memories of watching them? Get our your timer and start writing!*