Wednesday night Darryl Sutter laughed at the notion that the Kings are somehow flawed for having not been able to close out the Devils in four games, as they have had similar trouble in two other potential close out game fours.
It is laughable. This game is hard and that doesn’t change just because for large portions of the playoffs the Kings have made it look easy.
Dustin Penner suggested that we, fans and media, along with the team in a respect, counted our chickens before they hatched. We all know when you count unhatched chickens, you end up with a bunch of pre-chicken primordial ooze dripping all over the place and those chickens you do have, end up cockeyed.
Yesterday Sutter said some people were spoiled. He probably meant the media, but the fans likely aren’t exempt from that claim.
So, are we spoiled?
I wanted the Kings to win game four, desperately. I expected them to win. I had my celebration all planned out, or at least I spent too much time thinking about it. I was very guilty of putting my cart squarely in front of my horse. I had decided I had precisely 16 chickens, but it turns out I only had 15 eggs. Am I spoiled?
Or, do I just want to believe in magic?
If the Kings win the Cup on Saturday, I will shock myself with how quickly I can forget about a disappointing Wednesday. However, that Wednesday presented the promise of so much kizmit, I needed to believe it would happen. The Kings’ anniversary of expansion, being at home, miraculously finding seats in my section and nice people moving so my father and sister could sit next to me. Having been able to attend all four final games, all of them wins. Not having to have Mike Emrick ruin the moment. Not having to have Pierre Mcguire’s ridiculous face and utterly bland voice and worse commentary inject itself into the celebration. Being with tens of thousands of Kings fans afterward to celebrate. Showing the world Los Angeles can win something without rioting. Simultaneously proving that Laker fans really are subhumans. Perfection. It was there, on the table. Was I spoiled to want to dig my fork in and start eating?
Perhaps. But I am only spoiled if the moment when the Kings win is spoiled because of opportunity lost and desires unmet. I am not spoiled because I am willing to accept that the hockey gods work in mysterious ways, and whenever that moment of the Kings first Stanley Cup does come, it will be perfect. I can guarantee that because when it happens, that’s all there will be. The rest of my concerns will fade and my tangential desires to align everything just so will cease to exist.
Or I’ll break down into a sobbing lump, smash my head on a bannister while barreling down the hallways screaming and won’t remember a thing.
Only one way to find out.