I was thinking about simply reposting the St. Crispin’s day speech (one of my favourites) again, but my Soul For Cup contract with Satan clearly states that I am only permitted one Inspirational Soliloquy From Dead 16th Century Tights-Clad Playwrights per round.
That’s okay though, since I am positively brimming with confidence. How, you may ask? How can I feel so good, even though we’re still trailing in the series, the Big Line is still MIA, Spezza insists on reverting to the pre-Christmas version of his bad (and by bad, I mean putrid) self and Rayzor was far from solid in Game 3? Easy. Booze.
Oh, and this:
It’s getting spicy out there, and the boys have a good hate on for the Ducks now. The games where they played their best, lights-out hockey was against teams they had come to despise (paging Sydney Crosby. Mr. Crosby, please pick up the white phone).
Pronger’s absence on the blue line will hurt more than Carlysle is letting on. Although we’ll miss the big lug’s offensive contributions (thanks again Chris!), it’s time to turn on the jets, gentlemen.
We’re still at home. Think Saturday was crazy? By the end of the second, the Ducks will think they’ve been locked in a very loud phone booth with 21,000 screaming, rabid beavers. (What, not scary? Here’s your stick, Tess Trueheart. Go poke it).
As shaky as Emery was, Jiggy looked even worse. If we can pump five or six past him again, he may just give up completely and join a monastery. That’d be cool.
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