Let's make sure this is adequately bloated.

I'm pretty sure somewhere Dany Heatly just demanded a trade.

So the Wings have staved off elimination for another day, winning tonight fuck you-1. A statement game that San Jose didn't seem to care about. And why should they? They are up 3-1. The Wings have to win three in a row, an extremely tough task against this San Jose team. Who knows if they can pull it off, but it was nice to watch the effort tonight. It's good when you can see your team move up and down the ice with ease and know that they can pretty much do whatever they want on the ice. We've not seen that Wings team often enough through the playoffs; I'm glad it happened tonight.

Since we've received some feedback stating this site doesn't provide much in the way of game analysis (and we at the Scrappy Octopus take all complaints seriously), allow us to provide our take on the game:

The Sharks shit the bed. Oh, and Joe Thornton acted a fool. Great leadership, guy.

So there you have it. It's simple when you break it down scientifically. Now, the Wings still have a huge hole to climb out of. It's going to be hard. McLellan is an amazing coach. Marleau, Thornton, Pavelski, Blake...it's a talented group. All the right role players. It's going to be a tough road. Tonight, however, the Wings started the first step in that process - they won tonight.

Three more guys. Oh, and Nat wanted me to quote her on something: "Abdelkader's fight was very Downey-like". Her words, not mine (though I feel her on that one). I'm pretty sure if Abby's right would've connected, it would've killed a guy.

Go Wings. Let's get this done.

"I don't want to talk about it."

So said Homer in his FSD interview during the first intermission, specifically in reference to the garbage goal we coughed up to San Jose in, literally, the last seconds of the first period, after playing a commandingly strong game at both ends of the ice.

And that's how I've felt during this entire series.

Because how can we really talk about it?

Take yesterday's game. Yeah, we killed off all six penalties, had a chance at a penalty shot, scored four goals (one of which was overturned), all of which were scored by our typical postseason rockstars, and managed to show up in the faceoff circle. So, what the fuck happened?

Various people during my workday ask me how the Wings are doing during playoff runs. Smart move by them, as it's really all I'm capable of discussing during the spring months. My new-ish coworker is a complete and total sweetheart (yeah, yeah, my polar opposite--the joke pretty much makes itself); she has absolutely no interest in hockey, but she always makes a point to ask me how the games go.

In order to express my angst, I've sketched a little interpretive ditty of each conversation thus far following each game in Round 2:

And then...

And, in anticipation of talking to her tomorrow:

And yeah, for those of you who don't already Facebookstalk me, I am actually a purple troll with unkempt pencil hair.

I have no words to describe adequately and completely how I'm feeling right now. Angry? Of course. Frustrated? You bet. Nervous? Sure.

Despite the Wings' lack of cohesive play at various times throughout the season, I was in no way, shape or form mentally prepared to watch them give up the goals they gave up last night. I'm further in no way, shape or form prepared to deal with being down 3-0 in the series against a team that I've lambasted as a disappearing act the likes of which are incomparable unless Marian Hossa's present. It's such a scary set of numbers, isn't it? What does this even feel like? How is it that the Sharks have capitalized on every single instance of the proverbial "letting our feet off the gas" in this series? This is the composition of TSO's current existential funk.

It's amazing how far a 3-0 series deficit and a white-hot team like the Sharks can foster hatred in the heart of someone who already hates plenty as it is. Do I have any real reason to hate San Jose? Not especially. There's no equivalent of cockface extraordinaires Matt Cooke or Georges Laraque or Chris Pronger on the team to whom I can easily point and jeer, "Yeah, look at all those assholes at the HP Pavilion, cheering for that motherfucking prick." Speaking of the HP Pavilion, it's amazing how much the denizens of Silicon Valley show up for that team. Aside from the superlame shark jaw motion they do to rile up the team (because what's more invigorating than seeing someone munch his/her entire arms in your general vicinity? A whole bunch of nothing, that's what.) and the superlamer Styx-esque sound effects they play after announcing the names of goal-scorers, I have to tip my hat to a city that gets behind its team. Furthermore, the team as a whole has refused to get shaken up, even when down 3-1 for much of yesterday's game. And for fuck's sake, the laser-haired Todd McLellan is a former Babcockian acolyte. There's so much NOT to hate about this team...

...but I do, anyway, for the time being. Sorry if you disagree, kids, but perhaps you're stronger people than I. Right now, there's little more I hate than San Jose. Major-league genocide? Yeah, that's probably worse than the Sharks. People who cram their religious views down other people's throats? Yeah, they suck at life a tad bit more, as well. Uninvited rimjobs? Welllllll...that might be pushing it.

For crunch time during the last series, I put on my Pollyanna hat and professed my staying in my proverbial seat until the final seconds of Game 7. Obviously, the same is true for all of us in this situation, except instead of knowing that our team's fate will be determined in 60 +/- minutes from the first puck drop, in our only good-case scenario, we have four sets of 60 +/- minutes to endure. For residents of Hockeytown at Large, it means an awful lot of nail-biting, whiskey-guzzling, nipple-clamping, tears, and cheers until time runs out in Game 7. Hopefully, there are more cheers than tears.

P.S. One final thought on last night's game: I would have bet Patrick Marleau's eyebrows against him scoring the game-winning goal last night. One of the fine details that chaps my ass the most about this series is the fact that Marleau and Thornton have each scored game-winners against us after being mostly invisible for the duration of the postseason. Fuck me sideways.

Game Sev--Can I actually type the rest?

Last night I had the weirdest dream: I was the co-proprietor of a Red Wings blog, only I hadn't written a thing for it in nearly two weeks. I awoke in a cold sweat, my heart racing, my hair matted to my face, and I began forlornly crying out to the night winds.

Somewhere, I like to imagine, mine and Homer's night howls crossed paths.

This is what happens when your life--specifically, all the things that serve as buzzkills to your life--plants itself in the way of your more awesome pastimes.

And here we are, friends, at an all-or-nothing crossroads: the brink of the detested Game 7. How did we get to this point? More to the point, how is it that the Wings--a team barreling through the home stretch of the regular season like a pubescent boy with a fuck pass to the girls' locker room--have managed to find themselves pushed to the brink by a team that, for all its grit and grind and gusto, has not been insolvable for the Wings when the Wings pack their A-game?

In short, I have no fucking idea.

I watched the games just like the rest of you. I saw the Wings lose Game 1 in a close rout. I cheered during Game 2 when Hank sent curly fries and wet dreams to all from the high desert. I watched the Wings play a lackluster game last Sunday and again come up short, only to tie up the series once more with Jimmy's first career playoff shutout in Game 4. And on Friday, my drunk ass celebrated the Wings taking the lead in the series for the first time yet with grab-assing and drowning my hoorays in Jameson.

And then Game 6 happened. The Wings had a chance to close out the series at home. And they didn't. With a few short exceptions, there was little to no sustained pressure or coherence in the Wings' play, short of the first few minutes of the first period.

The few short exceptions:

1. Pavel Datsyuk, the ultimate playmaker, was responsible for the Wings' first goal due to his amazing vision on the ice. Fucking spectacular.

2. Henrik Zetterberg had one decent chance when he battled along the boards behind the net and plowed to the front with the puck.

3. Patrick Eaves played briefly like he remembered how awesome he was during the regular season for a couple of shifts during the Wings' various penalty kills during the second period.

4. Justin Abdelkader has played this entire series like a kid who belongs in the big house, and for that, we love him all the more than we already did.

But all in all, it wasn't enough. We can easily pick out goats from Sunday's game: Brad Stuart, despite scoring on the beautiful pass from Datsyuk, committed irreversible mistakes. Furthermore, I believe I caught Johan Franzen's face on a milk carton recently. And our penalty kill on Sunday? About as successful as karmic justice laying the proverbial smackdown on Marian Hossa. And didn't you just fucking know that the streak would be broken as soon as NBC flashed the graphic at the bottom stating we'd killed 19 consecutive penalties in the series?

So, what do we do now to bide our time until go-time tonight? This is the point in the post where I typically lighten the tone with a mindless video or a list of facetious tenets about our experience as Wings fans. But it just doesn't feel right.

I know I'm far from alone when I say that I'm not ready for a Game 7. I'm especially not ready for a first-round Game 7 in a series in which we've watched our team alternately play balls to the wall, then like a bag of ass. I lay awake until almost 3 a.m. last night, the nauseated knot in my stomach growing from a tangerine to a pomelo. (Impressed? Don't be. I don't know what the fuck that even means.)

The boys at The Triple Deke made one of the most honest and succinct points about the way many of us (my hand's raised here, too) initially react with our team's backs against the wall:

Go back and read some interviews or watch some video on some of these guys' reactions to getting knocked out of the playoffs and tell me it was because of "heart." Did Stuart fuck away a turnover because he doesn't care, or because of bad decision making? I think I'll take the latter....All too often I'm seeing trash comments that those same people dog on other team's bandwagon fans for, and it's embarrassing. I can be as pessimistic as the next guy, but dammit I don't act like I'm better than the fucking team.

Reading that post was the verbal equivalent of taking a deep breath/Quaalude/choose your own panacea. I tend to prepare myself for the worst-case scenario in order not to be disappointed--or wrong--in the face of said worst-case scenario. But after reading TTD's calling-out of babycrying, I had to ask myself: If we give up believing in our team before Game 7 even begins, what does that say about our fandom? Tonight, we'll gather our lucky charms (in this case, I'm pulling out the #19) and gear down for a great night of hockey. I refuse to leave my seat and exit the (proverbial) arena until the clock has run out, whatever the result may be. Otherwise, what the fuck is the point?





Let's go, Wings.

Stop! It's the mothafuckin playoffs.

Playoffs.

Holy fuck.

It's finally here. All those months of agony and ecstasy, pleasure and pain, boners and buzzkills--and now we get to do it all over again.

It's a great day to be a hockey fan.

More specifically, it's a great day to be a Red Wings fan. My favorite Red Wings hat is perched atop my desk for all to see. (I triple-dog-dare a horrible Pens' fan to stroll in here and say a word--one. fucking. word.) Jerseys will be worn on casual sex Fridays. Red will be worn on every other game day during the workweek. Brian will be holding down the Winged Wheel in Atlantic City this Friday, sporting his jersey and always-awesome red stubbly pre-beard.

We're pulling out the big guns for the postseason, and we hope you'll join us. That's right: Get out your talismans, voodoo dolls, nipple-clamps and electro-powered boxsprings and come along for the ride.

First things first: Following the Olympic break, we instituted a creed here to get us in the zone for the final stretch of the regular season. Now, with a few tweaks and additions, we present you the following:

The Even More Newly Minted TSO Creed: Uber-Special Playoff Edition
1. We believe in the power of the 19th consecutive year the Wings have made the playoffs.

2. We believe Pavel Datsyuk, Henrik Zetterberg, Johan Franzen, Valtteri Filppula, and Tomas Holmstrom are on a white-hot roll and are just warming up, for sure.

3. We believe in the power of Jimmy Howard, rookie extraordinaire, to stop pucks with his aura. (Do the pucks even touch him?!)

4. We believe it's now Dan Cleary's lot in life to make Brian James look like a complete jackass. (It's working!)

5. We still believe in Mike Babcock. Period.

6. We believe in the unmatched awesomeness of our blueline, as well as our forwards who own both ends of the ice. (If someone's reading this who doesn't believe in that, I will fucking KRONWALL your ass.)

7. We believe in Patrick Eaves notching a Gordie Howe hat trick at some point during the Wings' playoff run. (And, since shootouts are a no-go, there will be no #Eavesing of oneself, only of others, which is not only tolerated but wholeheartedly encouraged.)

8. We still believe in the kill.

9. We will always believe in dancing with Lord Stanley in June. Period.

Game 1 versus the Phoenix Coyotes is tonight. Moments like right now are when I most wish I had a DeLorean. Why? So I could travel back to nine months ago, before I knew that the Coyotes would even stay in Phoenix, let alone make the playoffs, and place some huge bets. It's as surprising as my realization last weekend, approximately 20 years late, that I rock at batting left-handed. (Don't laugh. I had a painful childhood. My therapist tells me it's ok to say that in the face of adversity.)

The playoffs are such a magical time of the year. In addition to watching the Wings do their thing, there are so many other fascinating matchups to track. Home crowds ablaze in team colors, players trash-talking the opposition. Lots of #FuckYeah to go around. That brings me to our Wednesday question this week:

Which non-Wings quarterfinal pairing (either Conference) most interests/excites/titillates you?

I'm sure that Brian's answer will be Pittsburgh/Ottawa because of how much he loooves Ottawa. [Insert eye roll, for the sarcastically-challenged.]

Other than the Wings, I'm most looking forward to watching the Chicago/Nashville series. Division rivals who both play exciting, tight hockey; however, both teams still have their textbook "What ifs?" hanging over their heads. Will the Hawks' offensive power be too much for the Preds? Or will Rinne stand tall and give Chicago a run for their money? The Preds are one of those teams that come on strong against tough opponents and scare the shit outta me every time the Wings play them. That being said, you know whose side we'll be on. (Sorry, K of C.)

What say the rest of you? Who are you looking forward to watching?

Finally, per the usual, some standbys to get us really, really pumped: