One thing I love about the playoffs is that the intensity takes its toll on us all. Win or lose, playoff games are taxing on our endorphins, stress levels and livers. Just as I start to calm down from the previous game, boom! Here comes another one, and not a moment too soon.

What will Darryl Sutter do to boost the offense? Maybe nothing. He has always championed the idea that you keep working and the goals will come. This series is quite easily the tightest in the league, every inch a mile and those miles stained with blood and sweat.

He could play Toffoli; dude’s just sitting there. But I don’t think he does, nor do I think he should. If Kopitar and Carter are having so much trouble finding space to breath and work their magic, what makes you think Toffoli, who is much more likely to get exposed under such strenuous conditions than he is to flourish, will be able to succeed where the mega millionaire Cup champions have failed?

He could screw with the lines, and once again I will say I think Penner or Clifford belongs at Richards’ left.

While this is a tightly coached series, coaching has nothing to do with opening the floodgates on the Kings offense, or hell, at this point cracking room for a steady trickle. Our top players need to take it upon themselves to not be denied. Kopitar and Carter have not shown quite the level of hunger and desperation necessary. That trend will not continue.

But enough talk. It’s all bullshit save for what happens on the ice. I want Staples louder than it was on Saturday, which was not loud enough. I want encroaching Blues fans heckled mercilessly. I want this game to start already because damn it, I’m antsy.

Right now, I just want to pray.

Our Kings, these defending Stanley Cup Champion Kings, who art in the motherfucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On our ice, because that’s just the way it has to be.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves for a deficit and tie this series up.
And in the meantime give these dicks from St. Louis a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the first round,
Past these ugly ass Blues,

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.