Noooooooooo!

Total domination, Red Wings: 2-1 advantage in shots on goal, complete control of the game in terms of physical play, puck possession, etc., couple of hit posts, missed wide-open net, the lead with less than a minute to play…

Then, disaster. A bad penalty. A guy unable to clear the zone. A fluke bounce off the stick of our best defenseman. Overtime.

A power play. More good chances; nothing to show for it. I think to myself: now they’re going to come back and score. What happens? Bad give-away in the zone, suddenly Teemu Selanne (Teemu frickin Selanne, goat of so many Sharks games over the years) is walking in alone on a startled Hasek. Shovels it over his shoulder. Game over.

I walk out of the house. Down to the river. Sit there. Fantasize about jumping in, ending it all. Fantasize about electrocuting all the obnoxious Spurs fans floating by. Gradually, life seeps back in. I come home.

But this was a tough one. A combination of Level IX and II on the “Levels of Losing” by Bill Simmons (that’s “sudden death” and “stomach punch” for those who don’t know) (hell, throw in a little of Level IV, the Broken Axle, just for kicks).

Yup. Stomach punch. That’s exactly how I feel. It’s one of those “can’t function for 24 hours” type of losses. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me like this, but this one really, really, really hurts. Apologies in advance to Tina and Q.

* * *

One more thing about the controversy from my previous post: Yes, I should have clarified my intention in characterizing San Marcos as a small town when David asked me for some commentary prior to writing his review. I will write to him and see if there’s time to do so before he goes to press. The focus ought to be on the great work inside the journal that David writes about, not my careless remark. Sorries all around.