Last season, we limped into the Western Conference Final against the Chicago Blackhawks. Kopitar, Williams, Brown, hell, the entire team was on a wicked cold streak. Nobody was scoring goals. We had a rookie, inexperienced Jake Muzzin manning the blue line and playing in critical roles. Our defense 2-6 was a shell of itself. We couldn’t compete because we walked into a gun fight with a knife in hand.
We still remember defeat’s bitter taste.
We let its memory remind us why we hate it so.
May 18, 2014.
12:00pm, Pacific Standard Time.
Armed. Dangerous. Focused.
Prepare a dish of suffocating defense, an explosive offensive attack and goaltending that swallows pucks and leaves no seconds.
Prepare this dish, best served cold, and feed it to our opponent game in and game out until they gag on their last breath.
When they lay still beneath us and look up, valuing our mercy as they do their own lives, remind them this was not revenge we sought, for revenge is a kind of wild justice. No, this was more. This was a reckoning.
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