The Vortex is a scary place, as you may all be realizing at this point. It’s not all fun and games and cowboys with questionable “connections” to a real bull if we aren’t enthused enough by the idea of riding a mechanical bull. It IS those things. But it’s also all about tears and screaming and fugue states where you wake up several days later, no memories to speak of, hands covered in dirt and several fingernails missing.
We expect both over the course of this series. We’re already searching for the molars that turned up missing after Saturday’s game – they’re probably somewhere in the desert, next to a bloodied Boston Market takeout bag. We can’t be sure.
We need to be disciplined and get our momentum back. We can’t let grudges and anger and whiny-ass-bitches dictate our play. It’s going to be a rough night, but we can come out of this ahead if we Remember Who We Are.
The game opens up with Sid finally winning a faceoff, which feels like putting on your favorite old sweater. Unfortunately, within moments, the sweater proves to have been infested with restless centipedes while in storage.
The game is fast and busy again, and you remember this from Saturday. You decide to go to Twitter to see if anyone has any insight as to why we don’t quite look like we know what we’re doing but all you get are the doomsayers. You whisper swears to your cat and swallow another mouthful of whiskey as you read the trillionth tweet comparing this to last year’s Flyers series.
Our speed and possession look pretty quality, and while it is reminiscent of the last game in the series, that means that there’s a chance for the momentum to swing our way at the drop of a -
Your soul feels almost empty. But something is still rattling around in there.
Never mind it was just this bird with teeth come on you guys let’s get out of here quick.
MAF is back. Your tongue is lolling out and sweat has made your Joe Vitale shirt cling to your body in an unflattering way. Sutter knows what you are going through and tries to ease the pain.
“Thank fucking god” is your only response because joy is reserved for situations that are joyous. Relief is for right now. But god is dead or is still a spiteful Isles fan. Either way.
First intermission will be spent searching for roof access or the meaning of life or a cheesecake. Probably all three.
The first second is free of B’s goals, which is refreshing and smooth like Redstone Creek water. Now being bottled in Uniontown. Visiting guests from Boston can receive their complimentary bottle at the concierge desk.
We get some chances but the Pens look like you feel: tired and concerned. It’s in their heads and that’s a problem in this series. The B’s have troubles with some pretty easy teams because of head games, but we’re not asking to play.
We guess the third period happened but idk it may have just been a mirage. The B’s scored two more times because why not. Some confident in-game changes from Danny B could have been nice. Sidney, or really any of our other Big Boys rallying the troops is a delight we would have loved. But none of it happened. There was so little accountability, leadership, motivation, burning bushes, etc.
But we’ve heard whispers that we can lose three games. There’s no reason we can’t get it the hell together and go make the Boston crowd feel the way they made us feel. Mufasa is still up there in the clouds, telling us how to win. And if the Lion King wasn’t a thinly veiled story about the Pens, we don’t know what is.
Speaking of stories, Zoe wrote this one for you to enjoy in your time of need:
We will meet in the Boston Public Garden at dawn, Kris Letang and I, and when I hand him his bouquet of dead, blackened roses he will understand, in his heart of hearts, that this is the talisman he must take with him to his grave. We will look down at last night’s garbage in the average, scrubby New England grass, and weep together. The crinkled rose petals will fall as he walks away, leaving a trail behind him that, while wilted charred, will glow slightly in the sunshine. There is no death. Only ruin. Only loss of innocence. Only a pack of burnouts from Bridgewater, Massachusetts roaming Canal Street at three in the morning, saying something about ‘Cindy Crosby’ and ‘that faggot Letang’ before they vomit our hopes and dreams into the North Station escalators. We must stop them. We must be strong.
So strong we shall be.