On an April night in 1973, a kid from Roxborough stood in front of the Spectrum and listened to a muffled roar explode through its walls. He did not go in. Could not go in, really. Hell, they couldn't even watch it on TV. They were Roxborough kids, the sons of machinists, of factory foremen, of Marine Corps vets who returned from Korea and spent the rest of their lives cobbling together a living on the ground floor of the industrial complex that enabled such entanglements. Funny how it works: You risk your life to protect the capital, you manufacture the material to construct the building, and then you stand outside and listen to the crowd.
Ed Snider's legacy is best seen among Flyers' fans
