In the newspapers tomorrow, everyone's going to be talking about the epicness of Friday's game. I bet Mitch Albom wrote his article three days ago. They're going to mention the same four or five things over and over again to fill an entire sports section, because that's what they get paid to do.
I don't get paid, so I'm not going to sit here and do that. And I'm not going to pretend that I'm excited about a game seven.
Pointing fingers? The refs weren't calling much either way. Chris Osgood had like eight-thousand saves. I don't even know if the Wings had enough shots on Fleury for me to be able to point at his whorishness on this one.
So you can pick your goat, but I'm going with my dad, who made a prediction before the game.
Anyway, the Wings still aren't out of it, and they're pretty good at home. So I'm keeping my positive face on. (at least until game day, when I melt into a puddle of nervous goo.) Someone's winning the Cup by the end of the week, and I like our odds.
I don't know how you're dealing with the frustration, but as for me and Lindsay, we're keeping sane by making fun of Jim Balsillie's name. Maybe that makes us fifteen year old boys, but seriously. Balsillie.