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Post-Game Talk: Panthers elbow their way to 3rd straight ECF vs a team they definitely didnt sweep

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THE MOST PENALIZED TEAM IN THE LEAGUE

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Imagine being a Leafs fan.

You got out of the first round two seasons ago. It felt like the curse had lifted. You called your dad. You cried in a bar. It felt like something real. Something lasting. Then Florida beat you in 5.

But then came this season. And somehow… this was the year. They actually looked good. They won the damn division! The Atlantic! It’s competitive as hell and they won it.

Berube came in and growled everyone into playing defense, for a couple weeks. You thought: this is different. This team has edge. Grit. Jam. Honour. Passion™.

Round 1? Battle of Ontario. Beat those Sens. We’re the best in the province.
Now Round 2: Panthers, again. Revenge arc. You believe. We all believe. This team has the Passion™.

Game 6 in Sunrise? Chef’s kiss. Matthews scores, finally. That’s the highest-paid player in the league doing what he’s paid to do (in his 11th playoff game against the Panthers). First second-round goal for him ever. That’s OUR f***ing Captain. You touched your mustache in his honor.

Panthers fans started leaving with two minutes left, down 2–0. Pathetic. You find a clip of them leaving later. You tweet it, captioned “no class. Leafs fans would never. \#ThePassion”. You got 6 likes. Nice.

You spent a month’s rent on a pair of Game 7 tickets at Scotiabank. You also skipped your cousin’s wedding in Bermuda. Who cares that you can’t get your money back, it’s the f***ing Leafs. IN GAME 7. Your cousin will understand.

$70 for parking. $14 for a lukewarm Molson. $20 for a few chicken tenders and fries that taste like cardboard you’d find in Kensington.

First period? Scoreless. Tense. You can feel it. Something’s coming. The boys dominated that second half of the first. We got this, boys. Believe. Beleaf. The Passion™.

And then… the second. Seth Jones scores. Your section goes quiet.

In what feels like milliseconds later, Lundell finds a rebound off a Marchand shot. 2–0. f***ing Marchand. The hockey goblin. You didn’t think it could get worse, and he left the Bruins for the f***ing Panthers.

Minutes later and Jonah Gadjovich rips one past Woll. Gadjovich? What the f***. 3-0.

Berube is blinking in Morse code. Marner is gazing up at the rafters, thinking “maybe they’ll retire my jersey in Utah”. Matthews compulsively twirls his mustache. They already know it, but you don’t wanna think it. Not yet. The Passion™.

You look down at your beer. It’s empty. You lift it to your lips anyway. A guy one row down gets up to leave. People would boo, normally, but they get it tonight.

3–1. Domi. He did something positive? Wow. You keep believing. They’re gonna do it. One goal at a time.

f***. 4-1. Luostarinen. Another point for Marchand. You hate that f***ing rat.

You look at the time and think about the drive back to Oshawa and going back to your cubicle tomorrow morning. You open Twitter and delete your post from a couple nights back.

5-1. You have no shame anymore. You leave. You’re not the only one. At least the empty seats won’t be as visible since you’re in the nosebleeds. A couple jerseys hit the ice. Where’s the class?

You leave the arena early. You thought you were out of tears, done crying over this team. You were wrong. The Passion™. No matter what, you have it. It’s terminal. Why couldn’t your mom have birthed you in the Sunshine State? Tragic. A solemn tear rolls down your cheek.

Back to Oshawa.
Back to bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Back to wondering what comes next. You remember Game 3. It was 3-1, you were up 2-0 in the series. What the f*** happened?

You turn on the radio. Someone says, “Next year’s the one.”

But it’s not.
You know it.
Everyone knows it.

Marchand got the empty-netter, by the way.
 
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ShootIt said:
Imagine being a Leafs fan.

You got out of the first round two seasons ago. It felt like the curse had lifted. You called your dad. You cried in a bar. It felt like something real. Something lasting. Then Florida beat you in 5.

But then came this season. And somehow… this was the year. They actually looked good. They won the damn division! The Atlantic! It’s competitive as hell and they won it.

Berube came in and growled everyone into playing defense, for a couple weeks. You thought: this is different. This team has edge. Grit. Jam. Honour. Passion™.

Round 1? Battle of Ontario. Beat those Sens. We’re the best in the province.
Now Round 2: Panthers, again. Revenge arc. You believe. We all believe. This team has the Passion™.

Game 6 in Sunrise? Chef’s kiss. Matthews scores, finally. That’s the highest-paid player in the league doing what he’s paid to do (in his 11th playoff game against the Panthers). First second-round goal for him ever. That’s OUR f***ing Captain. You touched your mustache in his honor.

Panthers fans started leaving with two minutes left, down 2–0. Pathetic. You find a clip of them leaving later. You tweet it, captioned “no class. Leafs fans would never. \#ThePassion”. You got 6 likes. Nice.

You spent a month’s rent on a pair of Game 7 tickets at Scotiabank. You also skipped your cousin’s wedding in Bermuda. Who cares that you can’t get your money back, it’s the f***ing Leafs. IN GAME 7. Your cousin will understand.

$70 for parking. $14 for a lukewarm Molson. $20 for a few chicken tenders and fries that taste like cardboard you’d find in Kensington.

First period? Scoreless. Tense. You can feel it. Something’s coming. The boys dominated that second half of the first. We got this, boys. Believe. Beleaf. The Passion™.

And then… the second. Seth Jones scores. Your section goes quiet.

In what feels like milliseconds later, Lundell finds a rebound off a Marchand shot. 2–0. f***ing Marchand. The hockey goblin. You didn’t think it could get worse, and he left the Bruins for the f***ing Panthers.

Minutes later and Jonah Gadjovich rips one past Woll. Gadjovich? What the f***. 3-0.

Berube is blinking in Morse code. Marner is gazing up at the rafters, thinking “maybe they’ll retire my jersey in Utah”. Matthews compulsively twirls his mustache. They already know it, but you don’t wanna think it. Not yet. The Passion™.

You look down at your beer. It’s empty. You lift it to your lips anyway. A guy one row down gets up to leave. People would boo, normally, but they get it tonight.

3–1. Domi. He did something positive? Wow. You keep believing. They’re gonna do it. One goal at a time.

f***. 4-1. Luostarinen. Another point for Marchand. You hate that f***ing rat.

You look at the time and think about the drive back to Oshawa and going back to your cubicle tomorrow morning. You open Twitter and delete your post from a couple nights back.

5-1. You have no shame anymore. You leave. You’re not the only one. At least the empty seats won’t be as visible since you’re in the nosebleeds. A couple jerseys hit the ice. Where’s the class?

You leave the arena early. You thought you were out of tears, done crying over this team. You were wrong. The Passion™. No matter what, you have it. It’s terminal. Why couldn’t your mom have birthed you in the Sunshine State? Tragic. A solemn tear rolls down your cheek.

Back to Oshawa.
Back to bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Back to wondering what comes next. You remember Game 3. It was 3-1, you were up 2-0 in the series. What the f*** happened?

You turn on the radio. Someone says, “Next year’s the one.”

But it’s not.
You know it.
Everyone knows it.

Marchand got the empty-netter, by the way.
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Where’s an F16 when you need it
 
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