Growing up in West Philadelphia in the 1970s, I did my time in pickup basketball and football games, where I was marginally proficient. But I avoided a game that was just as popular in my all-black neighborhood: street hockey.

If the words "black neighborhood" and "hockey" seem incongruous to you, that's OK -- the cliche about hockey being the domain of white men and whiter fans is generally true. But in my era, street hockey -- played skateless on asphalt, in front of ratty, makeshift nets -- ruled. For me, it seemed too strange a game to bother with.

The best hockey player in our neighborhood, however, did play to type: He was the only white kid around. His first name was either Lee or Michael, and his last name was Ackerman.

Because he was the son of the owners of Ackerman's Grocery, some of us used to call him "Eggs." He had official-looking hockey gear and occasionally played roller hockey in the schoolyard of nearby Heston Elementary with other white kids.

Most of the time, Ackerman played street hockey with some of the toughest kids in the neighborhood. It was a painful game to watch because ankles inevitably got twisted in the rush to get airborne while swatting an improvised puck into the opposing net.

Though the stoops in the neighborhood were filled with street hockey's casualties, Eggs Ackerman never sat out a game. Fair-haired and pale, his face was usually a patchwork of bruises and dried blood. When his lip got busted, he kept smiling and defiantly spat blood like a pro.

When his family closed their corner grocery and moved out of the neighborhood, Ackerman still had all of his teeth, which was a minor miracle given his obsession with hockey and standing his ground against bigger kids who considered cheap shots part of the game.

But what amazed me most about the years Ackerman lived in the neighborhood was the ease with which he was able to transmit his love and understanding of hockey to black kids who, according to the stereotype, had no interest in the game.

When the Philadelphia Flyers won Game 7 of the 1973-74 semifinals against the New York Rangers, West Philly found itself in the throes of hockey fever a mere seven years after the team came into existence.

Watching the Flyers' Bobby Clarke face off against the Boston Bruins' Bobby Orr in Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals was like watching Ackerman lord it over his opponents on Merion Avenue. The outcome seemed inevitable -- the Flyers became National Hockey League champs for the first time.

Over the next year, the Flyers' jersey became an inescapable part of street couture. The names of Rick MacLeish, Bernie Parent and Dave Schultz adorned many a back in the 'hood in those days. The orange-and-white jerseys with its distinctive black logo looked as cool as daishikis slung over the shoulders of afro-wearing corner boys.

Hockey fever only got crazier in the 'hood during the 1974-75 season, when the Flyers repeated their Stanley Cup winning ways against Buffalo.

No other sports figure got more love in Philadelphia during this period than Flyers' head coach Fred Shero; he was routinely compared to the great tacticians of history in the Philly media.

A few years later, Mr. Shero would break every Philadelphian's heart by defecting to the New York Rangers, setting up a series of epic grudge matches between the bitter rivals that rivaled Ali-Frazier in intensity.

Ultimately, I lost interest in the sport when the street hockey games in the neighborhood tapered off and the Flyers began losing like every other terrestrial team -- though there was a brief return to glory a few years later when the Broad Street Bullies were unbeaten for 35 games straight, a record that stands to this day.

By the time I left for college, Ackerman and the rest of the boys over on Merion had long stopped staging their titanic rivalries for the neighborhood's amusement. Ackerman had also departed for college, leaving his folks to close the store and move when they retired a few years later.

On Friday, the team I used to cheer during my relatively short period as a hockey fan is coming to town to play the Penguins at Mellon Arena.

Sitting here in my adopted city of 20 years, my loyalty -- as superficial as it is -- belongs to the Penguins. Still, old habits die hard and I can't help but hope the Flyers do well enough to keep the memory of that spectacular Stanley Cup team of the mid-1970s alive.

I'd like to think that Ackerman, wherever he is, and Mickey and Brian and all the boys from the neighborhood who used to skin their knees on the cobbled streets of our old town will tune in for a few minutes.