Friday turned into magic, for Pittsburgh and for me, though heading into the night, things didn't look so promising for either of us.

Few gave the Penguins much of a chance to win the Stanley Cup, on the road against the mighty Detroit Red Wings. History was against us, they said.

Friday was against me -- and maybe history, too -- or so it seemed. Oh me of little faith!

I'd bought a ticket for the Friday performance of the Mahler's "Resurrection" symphony months before the Penguins resurrected themselves for the march to the Cup. As an adult convert to the religion of Pittsburgh hockey, I really agonized over whether to trade in my Friday concert ticket for yesterday afternoon.

On one hand, I'd hardly missed a game all season; on the other, the outcome of the game would not be affected by whether I saw it or not. The details of play are still lost on me; the championship was what I wanted.

And the trek through Mahler with Manfred Honeck conducting has already proven to be paradigm-shifting -- kind of how a championship or two can change a city's future. Things are different because your perceptions -- of yourself, of your struggles -- have changed.

I could have it all: Since the Mahler was the only work on the program, it would end in time to dash to a TV and watch the Penguins' final period. Both missions accomplished. That was my game plan.

But Friday was a bear. It was an endless list of urgent deadlines, must-dos and kid-chauffeuring, topped off with lost jewelry and late fees and heavy books dropped on bare toes.

And as I finally grabbed my ticket and hobbled out the door, I was unhappy to find that I had two tickets, not one. I thought I'd exchanged the extra for a different concert weeks ago, and now it was too late to invite anyone -- especially on Stanley Cup night!

With a Pirates game, arts festival and the symphony, the parking crunch continued my wretched Friday record. I reached the Heinz Hall box office too late to refund my second ticket and was told yesterday afternoon's concert had sold out. (Yes, I wanted to go twice -- the Mahler's that awesome -- but yesterday's concert sold out the morning after the Penguins won Game 6. Other people plan ahead better than I do.)

Here's where things started to turn around: As I moved away from the box office, a man tapped my shoulder and offered me a ticket for the Sunday concert. "I have to leave town tomorrow and can't use it," he said.

"May I give you mine for tonight?"

"I've already bought one." And he was gone.

"Does anyone need a single ticket for tonight?" The second person in line behind me did, and to my surprise, it was a newish friend. Off we went.

The symphony describes a life observed after death -- its struggles and joys, the meaninglessness of frantic busyness, the fear of divine wrath and the hope of resurrection.

The monumental work can trace a man's life, or perhaps a city's. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust -- and then what? Do we rise from those ashes? However earthbound or mystical your chosen narrative, Mahler, not just hopeful, shouts a triumphant yes.

I heard the Mahler's Symphony No. 2 when the Pittsburgh Symphony last played it here, in 1996. (Necessary disclosure: My husband has been a member of the PSO since 1989.)

Back then, it was the finale to Lorin Maazel's last season; now, it is the finale of Mr. Honeck's first.

The contrast doesn't end there. Maazel's interpretation of the "Resurrection" was as strident as his "Dies Irae." He got the wrath but not the joy -- emotional light-years away from Mr. Honeck's bliss.

Furious precision isn't enough. Just ask the Red Wings. Both teams have stellar skills, but our guys have more heart. You can't argue with the results -- on ice or on stage.

After the Mahler ended and the audience literally roared to its feet, someone flicked on an electronic gizmo, and as we moved out, fairly floating, the word spread: Penguins up, 2-0, end of the second period.

Within minutes, audience, symphony and choir had jammed into every Downtown bar with a TV. My husband and I headed to a favorite North Side haunt -- Max's Allegheny Tavern -- for the last 10 heart-pounding minutes, the screaming and high-fives with jubilant neighbors.

It was magic. It was a night when you fall in love with your city and life all over again, the kind of night that promises you what's to come is better than what has been. The struggle is worth it.