Up 3-1 we were confident, but we cautioned “San Jose was confident up 3-0”.
Down 3-1, Chicago gloated, “Detroit was confident up 3-0”.
Lots of things have been said. Words are piss.
How silly are we to have thought the Western Conference Finals could be had more easily than the two rounds prior. How silly are we to be dejected. Yet here I am, no idea where you are, wallowing. How can I not? I wish I were a violent person. A greater desire to send an extremety flying through the air in the direction of something soft, ugly and red I haven’t felt since my lady was last on her period. Luckily I learn from the past and know to avoid that which involves a lot of gauze, crying, and a sore back.
What am I going to blame? Quick, for giving up a third series goal to Ben Smith, a player even Hawks fans will have forgotten within three years? Me, for going back to a jersey I hadn’t worn since game one? Gaborik, for letting Kane stay a step ahead of him for a full semi circle on the game winning goal? Matt Barry, for buying me a beer at the first intermission and compelling me to go downstairs for the first time during a game since Handzus was a King? Kopitar, for failing to make the adjustments necessary to buy himself the space to make a play? My sister, for attending her second game and second loss of the playoffs? Martinez, for despite scoring a big goal missing a golden opportunity on a wrap around? My mother in law, for visiting for a month and more obtrusively, simply existing?
Look, these are all equally valid concerns. But not a one of them counts for anything more than a three pointer in a basketball game – slightly more interesting farts in the wind.
I am angry tonight. Things may break.
But the Kings are not one of them.
Bailey asks you to Believe. I ask no such foolish command. I ask only for you to acknowledge what these playoffs have been all about.
Nothing worth having has come easy.
The Cup finals are worth everything.
Sleep off the hangover on Saturday. Sunday, the Kings play game only.