Matt Wallace held Sam Fryman’s elbow as the buddies walked through University of Pennsylvania’s ice rink in late January. Matt could feel a biting chill in the air. Could hear the clack-clack-clack of hockey pucks slapping against the boards. His senses, as always, were alive.
But Matt could see nothing. Not the face of his friend Sam, who guided him up 36 concrete steps to a broadcast platform. Not the Philadelphia skyline or the SEPTA train that had brought them into town from the suburbs. Not the scuff marks on the Plexiglas or the white ice on which the game he adores would soon be played.