Well what can I say?

There I was, all set to make this big congratulatory post (because, fool that I am, I promised I would). My WoW guildies, most of whom are fans of the Unspeakables (much to my chagrin), were spooging themselves over another five-game Cup win, and I had my mom’s number blocked.

Oh wait, I had Mom’s number blocked anyway–she’s a Celtics fan (and I am a Lakers fan).

And then, with thirty seconds left, Maxime Talbot ties the game. I settled in to watch overtime, preparing to edit my post about The Malik Effect being stronger than The Curse of the Euro Captain so I could finish getting my promised congratulations posted and go commit seppuku and have my soul dragged off to The Hell of 2:34 AM by Igor frakkin’ Larionov.

First OT gone. No score. Second OT gone. No score. The Red Wings bombarded the Penguins’ net, and Marc-Andre Fleury turned aside every shot that managed to get through a stifling Penguins’ defence. The Penguins couldn’t get a shot off for the life of them. Evgeni Malkin, bless his dear heart, tried. He tried so hard, but he just couldn’t get it done. Marian Hossa charged the net like a doughboy charging the guns of Gallipolli, but he couldn’t get through. I tuned out the talking heads on NBC, because Bob Neumeier has no business talking about hockey and Pierre McGuire and Mike Milbury have CRAFTSMAN stamped on their foreheads. Then I heard it:

Petr Sykora called his shot.

My husband heard it too–he said, “Did that guy just do a Babe Ruth?”

Mind you, Sykora didn’t point to a spot out in right field or anything, but he may as well have. “Yes,” I said. “I do believe that he did.”

The third OT started, and I said “there is no way in the Nine Worlds that I am going to be anything but a freaking zombie on the bus in the morning.”

Finally, at 12:46AM (or thereabouts–I was tired and punchy and didn’t notice), Petr Sykora hit his promised homer out of the park and there will be a Game 6.

I get a perverse sense of satisfaction out of that.