"Game Seven"

"Game Seven." There is something magical but terrifying about those words placed side by side, something final but not without hope. It is the epitome of why the players play, why the fans watch and why lifting a 35-pound shiny trophy at the end of the year is so damn therapeutic.

The words of the eloquent Mike Lange cannot capture the notion any better, "I'll meet you in the schoolyard baby for all the marbles." This is the essence of "Game Seven."

Each series creates its own entanglement of emotions, villains and heroes."Game Seven" is the pinnacle, the end game, the final death-match. Tonight none of the previous six games with Montreal matter, nor does the 2009-2010 regular season or the previous playoff round, it's one game for everything. It's "Game Seven."

The writers, haters, bloggers and rivals have their articles ready for the Penguins, witty comments in hand, waiting to pounce; desperately hoping for a defeat at the hands of the eighth-seeded Habs. They have been frothing at the mouth awaiting this moment for almost a year now, but they have to wait just a little bit longer, cause they can't hit "send", "publish", or "comment" until after a defeat in "Game Seven."

Tonight is an opportunity ultimately, another chance for Crosby to answer the bell he has made a habit of responding to like clockwork throughout his young career. Last year's Conn Smythe winner, Evgeni Malkin, can quiet--once again, those tireless experts, who at any lapse in his world class game take the occasion to call him a "lazy European." A great game from Kris Letang renders his costly turnovers and defensive blunders throughout the series as merely an afterthought. Of course there is the Flower, the winningest goaltender in the playoffs over the last three years, who once again can shut the detractors up with a big game in another big spot, one more "Game Seven."

For Crosby, Malkin, Fleury and the rest of the crew, you can allow, at maximum, the critics 12 opportunities to venomously rip you apart as long as you provide 16 opportunities for those same critics to eat their words. In order to do this you have to win "Game Seven."

Then there are the fans. Most this afternoon will try to extract positive memories of "Game Sevens" past, Pietrangelo and Hrdina in '91, Kasparitis sliding face first across the ice in '01 and who can forget Straka on his back in '99. Just last year there was Fleury robbing Ovie and Talbot with a pair to win the holiest of holies. These moments mean nothing at 7:05 tonight except to steady a shaky fan's hand and calm their thoughts for a moment, in anticipation of "Game Seven."

Additionally there are those fans who will drown themselves in their own sorrows of previous "Game Seven" failures, will point to Tom Fitzgerald (PIT Assistant to the GM and noted Game 7 villain) and Glenn Healy (broadcaster and Islanders net minder in the 1993) being in the Mellon tonight as bad luck or a sign of horrible things to come. These fans will look to David Volek in '93, the Rats of '96 and the Wregget stonewall of '89 to ready themselves for the heartbreak, to prepare for the terrifying moment that is "Game Seven."

Tonight marks another pivotal playoff moment for the players and fans alike. This evening, at the Mellon Arena the right to move onto the next round and fight another day for Lord Stanley is earned. A few things can be counted on; nervous moments will be plentiful, new heroes will emerge, what-ifs will fly and many a six-pack will be crushed. The eyes of the hockey world will be upon Pittsburgh and one thing is for sure, someone will snatch all the "marbles." That's why we play "Game Seven."

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Rats, Rats, Rats

Oh the Rats. Each one hitting the ice was another slap to your proverbial ego. Nothing was quite as demoralizing to watch as Tom Barasso seeking cover along with the linesmen in the goal net, as a black monsoon of plastic rats hit the ice in 1996. As this series with the Canadiens moves along flashes of that 1996 Panthers-Penguins ECF keep haunting my dreams.

Mike Cammalleri makes his best Tom Fitzgerald impression, a sixty foot series winning slapshot goal past Marc-Andre Fleury would seal the comparison. Brian Gionta fills his niche as Stu Barnes, the smallish annoying forward who just keeps working, as you ask yourself how is that guy doing this to us?

The best illustration between the two series ultimately remains the frustrating style of the play and timely scoring of the Habs. With every cry, "How did that not go in?" followed by two hands thrown wildly into the air, the analogy to Florida circa 1996 becomes more and more lucid.

The prequel to this series even feels like 1996, a week before the Eastern Conference Finals Penguins fans were cheering as the Panthers choked the life out of the hated Flyers. Florida's defensive system and opportunistic nature seemed cathartic and engaging against the orange and black. The culmination of game six and the final death blow to the Flyers was almost as satisfying as watching the Penguins close out the Rangers in five games three days prior, if not more so. When Florida put home that fourth goal in game six on May 14th, 1996 you were ready to toss a plastic rat out on the ice yourself, in unison with the rest of the south beach crowd. Four days later those rats might as well have infected you with the plague.

Fast forward to 2010 and game 7 of the Capitals-Canadiens series, who wasn't jumping up and down waving their hands in the air as Dominic Moore put the second goal past Varlamov with 3:36 remaining? At that moment we were all Habs fans. The hated Capitals had been cut down much like those venomous Flyers 14 years prior. Little did we know the frustration we were walking into days later.

While the rats back in that series were the antithesis of the animosity boiling over, with each failed Penguin rush up ice and inevitably a Fitzgerald or Barnes counter, at least it gave an outlet to release your inner hatred on. The Canadiens don't even allow that, there is no rat, frustration builds, and you witness the life of the series choked away minute by minute.

Jaroslav Halak does his best John Vanbiesbrouck 14 years later, a gutty, undersized netminder who seems to be everywhere at once, despite his small stature. When a goalie has it going on like he does there is little you can do but hope to seek shelter from the rats.

Game four was the ultimate embodiment of how hard it is to win in the playoffs, and how frustrating a loss can be. A game you feel your team has total control of suddenly is ripped from you with a slow "oh crap" Maxim Lapierre wrap-around game-tying goal, and an own goal to relinquish the lead. Instead of rats showering the ice, it was 21,273 voices in unison rubbing in that this series is not over, not close and despite what you may have thought, never was going to be easy.

Like the memory of rats haunting my dreams 14 years later, I hope the image of Kris Letang staring at an open net in the first period or Sidney Crosby being stoned late in the third, on what looked for a second like an easy put away, aren't the lasting "what if" moments of this series. The Penguins had more than their fair share of chances to put a death grip on this series in games 2 and 4 but seemed to be inches short time and time again just like 1996. Efficient with their opportunities, the Canadiens have made the most of them while the Penguins have let too many quality chances and long stretches of dominating play go to waste.

In 1996 the battle cry after each demoralizing and disheartening loss was eventually the breaks will come and tilt the other way. The Penguins must tilt the ice themselves to insure a repeat of 1996 does not occur, if not, memories of "rats" will have company haunting my hockey dreams.

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