The trouble with games sevens is that they’re equally critical to both teams, meaning both teams come out playing like Chewbacca on meth.
The trouble with game sevens is that they can be immovable objects (Chewbacca on meth) meeting irresistible forces (Chewbacca on meth).
The trouble with game sevens is that Cinderella might realize the clock is striking midnight on her time at the ball and instead of turning back into a defeated housemaid, she turns into a raging bitch on skates, hell bent on destroying our chances at a consecutive Stanley Cup.
The trouble with game sevens is every second counts. Every penalty might mean the series. Every bar hit might mean an early start to golf season. Every missed save, every missed gimme, every bad call, every little thing … might mean everything.
The trouble with game sevens is that they age you.
The trouble with game sevens is that your heart spends it in a constant state of “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD,” regardless of if you’re in the lead or not.
The trouble with game sevens is they don’t leave you much time to recover for Game One.
The trouble with game sevens is there might not BE a Game One.
The trouble with game sevens is you can’t escape the feeling you never should have seen this Game Seven.
The trouble with game sevens is WHO CAN WORK WHEN GAME SEVEN STARTS IN ____ HOURS?!
The trouble with game sevens is they make you want to puke or slit your wrists or listen to emo music or rock in place like the crazy people at the crazy home.
Here’s hoping and praying and aggressively stabbing the Marian Hossa Voodoo Doll of Hockey JuJu that the puking and the aging and the OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD feeling will be worth it at the end of the third period.
Let’s go, Pens!