All of the talking heads in the media are claiming it's the end of the road for the Red Army. "Red Death", "End of an Era?", and "Communism Falling" were the headlines of three major news syndicates on Saturday morning, all of which seemed certain that not only will the series be short, it won't even be close. So old Comrades, is it time to hit the panic button?
Yes.
Hit it. Swat at it. Stomp on it. Do whatever it takes to make sure the alarms sound off like the Bunker level in Goldeneye. Let everyone know that we sweat, we shake in our boots, and we fear. We don't want to lose, we don't like losing, and now that we are loss from losing the season, we are afraid.
And that's bad news for the Grenades.
No team in recent history has been so nonchalant when staring Death in the face as the Red Army has. It's as though every game they toy with the cloaked angel, lighting a cigarette before politely postponing their date. "Sorry, I'm busy this Tuesday. But my friends the Cryptic Stench, Shockers, Puck Ewes, Strangers, Daggermouth, and Prestige Worldwide have freed up their schedules." Unfazed by adversity, the scrappy group from Moscow do what they are best at when the pressure mounts: they win hockey games.
Down 1-0 in a best of three series? Bah. It wouldn't be in true fascist fashion if there wasn't drama. Outmatched by a system that seems to be keyed in on keeping Hendricks and friends from creating offense, let alone getting shots? Ha! Soviet style dictates that the puzzle must be solved in the eleventh hour while church bells toll and widows cry.
Yes, there is a mountain to climb. Actually, two. But that's the beauty of it. The Grenades also have to climb two, and though one is more than zero, it is not two. That's math. So where does that leave us? Well, we're at the bottom. We're low.
We're down, but not out.
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