But if you continued to insist that this would be the case, and you proceeded to ask me to predict how I would feel before Game 6, I doubt very highly that I would say I was nervous and impatient.
I was the embodiment of nervous and impatient on Monday.
I woke up to that "might win the Stanley Cup today" feeling—which is a fantastic feeling, don't get me wrong. But it is one of those things you'd rather have only once, like dysentery.
This was the third time.
I glanced at my computer wondering if I should subject myself to more opinion articles fawning over the Devils and the 1942 Maple Leafs, and how they would soon be the only two teams to overcome a 3-0 series deficit.
I wondered if I should venture onto Facebook, weary of finding jeers and jokes from my so-called friends.
I wondered if I should even log onto to Bleacher Report or ESPN, as I always do automatically.
I decided against all of them—I had had enough. I knew everyone was skeptical. I knew everyone was slowly assembling at the Devils bandwagon. I knew it would all just make me feel worse.
I went to class, which is perhaps the last place you want to be when your brain is consumed with other things. It is hard to focus on sociological market relations and the history of technological advancements when you are worried about blowing a lead that once seemed untouchable.
I returned home less than an hour before game time, and I just waited. I don't even know what I was watching. It didn't matter. Nothing else did.
The skaters came out on the ice. My stomach twisted itself into knots. My heart beat slowly crept upwards.
The game started, slowly. The puck dribbled back and forth down...
Article Source: Bleacher Report - Los Angeles Kings
