Curses.

My biggest failing is negativity. It's not that I see the glass half empty, but half empty and full of a mixture of pus and cat urine. My pessimism has no limits: ain't no mountain high enough that we can't fall off of, break our spines and spend the rest our lives shitting in a bag. It may well have been this negative streak that drew me to the Habs and, later, the Oilers: two franchises with glorious pasts long behind them both teams come with high expectations that yield little results. Cheering for the Habs/Oil axis is a pessimist’s dream because chances are, in the end, your most dire predictions of failure will come to pass, and you will stand vindicated and defeated. Yet the history and tradition these franchises embody generates visions of success that fuel impossible hopes.

When the Oilers made the Stanley Cup final, I was, as usual, skeptical. Sure, the run up to now had been great, the team had an air of destiny about them, but it was too much to let myself believe. But when the Oilers jumped out to a three goal lead in Game One, a game they dominated from start to finish, the mask slipped. For a few minutes, I believed.

It’s only right, then, that the universe would punish me for my sins by making the Oil cough up four straight goals, injure starting goalie Dwayne Roloson (putting him out for the series), and install the worst backup since Andre “Red Light” Racicot to literally give the game away with under a minute to play. Fuck.

Now’s the time for rolling over. Now’s the time to call it done, for Carolina fans to break out the brooms and lube up the livestock for the victory party behind the barn. Right?

Well, no. See, I’m tired of disappointment. I’m tired of being negative. I’m tired of giving up. I’m ready to see this through, to fight to the bitter end, to rally ‘round Jussi Markkanen. I’m ready to believe. So come on, Oilers: don't let us down. Send the ‘canetards back down to the holler in tears.