RICHMOND, Va. — It all seems familiar, doesn’t it?
The Penguins, seemingly in control vs. an inferior Flyers team, nonetheless allowing them back into the series. When the event I’m depicting this week occurred in 2009, I remember Facebook (still in its nascent stages, at least to me) was losing its mind. The Flyers’ three-goal Game 6 lead had yinzers cursing their team, pledging to sell their Game 7 tickets and taking public threats of bridge-jumping to new and never-before-seen levels. Then, Max Talbot goaded Daniel Carcillo into kicking his butt (a calculated decision, as Talbot knew his former Wilkes-Barre teammate would drop his gloves against better judgment) and before long, the series was won.
The event (and this past Sunday’s) effectively illustrates the razor-thin line between assured comfort and furious clenching that makes the Stanley Cup playoffs the terrible and beautiful thing that they are. All it takes is one dud with a chance to win a series, and suddenly, not only are you stomping on the panic button with both feet, you’ve got two days to agonize over it. And the best part is, we’re just getting started!
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