I was standing in the middle of G Street Northwest amongst a frenzied, red-clad mass when the clock ticked down to one minute remaining on the screens in front of the National Portrait Gallery, and I began to cry. I didn’t care that it was a horrendously ugly, unbecoming, immodest, chest-heaving cry. I also didn’t care that I was almost certainly scaring the group of teenage boys next to me whom I had befriended while staking out a viewing spot several hours prior to the start of game five of the Stanley Cup finals between the Capitals and the Vegas Golden Knights.
I Want This For Us
