The season is on life support. It's strapped to a bed in a sterile hospital room, hooked up to machines that beep a symphony of dull, empty notes, and surrounded by doctors who continue to alternate glances between their clipboards and the unchanging graphs on the computers. It's gloomy. The priest is in the elevator.
Folks, the margin of error is zero. We're one mistake from crossing over to the other side. One mistake from traveling to the rink in the sky. One mistake from our season dying. But we aren't going into the light just yet. No, because we are in the operating room, not the morgue, and that's more than seven other teams can say.
That's right, there have been seven other teams that have perished this season, and we're still here. And the season before? Another seven fell, most of which at our hands, while we remained standing. And the season before that? Eleven collapsed on the battlefield, but our knees never buckled. We're here because we earned it. We haven't died yet, and though we've taken shots to the ribs during the last three seasons, and been battered and beaten, our pulses, unlike every other team in the league, never went out. We got up every time. Then after we dusted ourselves off, we threw them to the ground.
There is life here. Ignore the medical opinions. Put the black suits back on their hangers and in the closets. Park the black cars. It's not over, it never is. The Shockers biggest mistake this season was one they couldn't control-- they didn't kill us on Tuesday. We're still here, and before anyone gives us our last rites, we have some serious ass to kick.
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