• I was at a Flyers game when an 84-year-old woman appeared on the Jumbotron and stole the show.
• The crowd cheered for her and booed the mascot, Gritty, whenever the camera switched away.
• Watching thousands of strangers celebrate her brought me to tears during a difficult time.

Since our kids left for college, my husband and I have been to many Philadelphia Flyers games.

The most recent, against the Colorado Avalanche, felt magical, and it wasn't just the high of a second consecutive win after a nine-game losing streak. There was an older woman, way up in the upper section, who, in a purely joyful moment, stole the show and captured the hearts of all 18,353 of us in attendance.

I'm calling her Good Luck Granny.

People were being shown on the Jumbotron

During the third period, the Flyers were up 3-1, and the crowd was electric. Could they make it two wins in a row? During TV time-outs, cameras stationed throughout the arena pan to fans — parents holding ear-muffed babies aloft, kids jumping up and down, waving "My 1st Flyers game!!" signs — or to our beloved mascot, Gritty, in his Chaos Corner, doing what Gritty does.

I love seeing the reactions of people who make it on the jumbotron, and, yes, I may have, on occasion, attempted to wave at a camera pointed in our direction. Being at the game means losing myself and any worries I might have for a few hours in something everyone can agree on.

With less than 10 minutes left in the third period, the camera found a grey-haired, bespectacled woman, straight out of central casting, in a royal blue hoodie. She was chair dancing, arms up in the air, her bright orange Flyers microfiber towel ready for waving. The arena exploded into a unanimous uproar for this stranger.

The camera panned to Gritty, and everyone booed. Then they went back to the woman, and we watched her moment of recognition in real time along with the guy seated next to her who'd been pointing her out to the cameraman. She lit up and began pointing at herself, as she mouthed, "Oh, that's me!" This was met with uproarious cheers.

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat and fought back tears as we continued to scream for her.

Everyone was excited for her

Everyone wanted more, and the camera operators obliged, cycling half a dozen times between Gritty, who played along with the boos and disappointment, and Good Luck Granny, who elicited raucous cheering, much to her and everyone's delight. I'm not sure why it made me so emotional, but the feeling remains.

After the game, fans followed and cheered her all the way out of the building, taking photos along the way.

Fans went crazy for her in the comment section, too. Under a video posted by Sports Radio 94WIP Reporter, Dave Uram, @anfieldcards wrote, "I sat right next to her and her daughter, she was crying after being on the screen. It meant so much to her. She's 84 years old but was screaming and cheering all game."

That woman was the distraction I needed

Maybe it's because 2026 has been filled with what feels like an endlessly worrisome, increasingly overwhelming news cycle, along with some personally painful moments. When my mother died in January, a few months shy of her 82nd birthday, I hadn't seen or spoken to her in 17 years. Not surprisingly, this has brought up some complicated feelings. Turning 59 this summer brought up a lot of thoughts, too (because I am a professional overthinker), about my own mortality and what the state of the world might be for my grandchildren.

For those three hours, though, being enveloped by the energy of strangers who come together for a shared, emotionally vested experience, the games have been a salve and a healing distraction. I also believe that now more than ever, we're all craving joyful, feel-good moments like cheering for an unsuspecting elderly woman in a crowded hockey arena.

So, thank you, beautiful stranger, our Good Luck Granny, for your infectious good vibes and an experience that will not soon be forgotten.

During one of his son’s hockey games, Nick Paumgarten watches as his eight-year-old is hit from behind, only to rise to his feet and use his stick to hit the side of his opponent’s head. Alongside his concern for his son’s head and neck, Paumgarten, who has written about his own hockey-related concussions, rapidly processes the outcomes of the exchange: a game-deciding penalty, his own reflexive rationalization, and the evaluation of other parents who “held me in some way responsible, as both father and coach, for the violence and loss of self-control.” Paumgarten’s essay is rich with such moments of parent-coach double-consciousness, and sensitive to the numerous ways, some of them awful, in which those two identities intrude upon each other.

That Sunday, it wasn’t yet 8 A.M. when a Rye player shoved James from behind into the boards. James went down awkwardly and stayed prone a moment, then leaped up and, with an implausible ferocity, cross-checked the other kid in the ear. The Rye boy collapsed to the ice, and the other kids poured in and began grappling with one another, while parents shouted and pointed. Soon there was a pile of mites, with the two referees pulling players off and flinging them aside like puppies. Through the windows, you could see that the sun had risen over the Long Island Sound. I thought of my son’s fellow second graders back in the city, likely still asleep or watching cartoons in their pajamas or getting dressed for church or whatever the unrinked got up to on weekend mornings, but here at Playland my boy had instigated a munchkin brawl.