Sharks Gameday: Detroit.
|25-3-3, 53 points||20-6-4, 44 points|
|1st in Pacific Division||1st in Central Division|
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Anyone who tells you it's December is correct. Anyone who kindly informs you that the playoffs don't start for another four months has their head on straight. Anyone who explains to you that two points won't make or break the Sharks season has evidently passed fifth-grade math.
But if anyone attempts to convince you that tonight is just another game, kindly tell them that they are full of it. And do something rash.
The Detroit Red Wings. Ponder that name for a minute. Let it marinate in your mouth. Let that red and white seep into your pores, let it consume your soul. Allow visions of Tomas Holmstrom and Chris Osgood to run wild in your mind; lifting Lord Stanley for all the world to see, drinking it's sweet nectar. Feel the Dark Side coarse through your veins. Accept it as a part of you, permit it entrance to the back of your throat till it becomes almost too much to bear.
Then spit that vile creature out.
Crush it beneath the soles of your shoes. Forsake every nightmare-inducing memory from your cortex, erase the last four years of disappointment. Forget everything you think you know about your own dreams and aspirations. Understand that the next sixty minutes will not guarantee a damn thing. But understand that the next sixty minutes will show us everything.
Some may make the excuse that the Sharks are coming off a back to back with Columbus; that we're banged up with injuries. Others may ponder just how the travel situation will affect the team. These are grown men ladies and gentlemen. Warriors. Our warriors.
Anyone who tells you tonight is just another game doesn't have a pulse.
Let's kick in the door to their house and raise some hell.