This is no big deal. My mind tells me this. The Flyers are still up 3-2 in the series, and have the Capitals on the ropes in game six tonight at the Wachovia Center.
It is very difficult to come back from a three games to one deficit and win a series. The last team to do it was the 2004 Montreal Canadiens, who beat the Boston Bruins in seven. A comeback under these circumstances would be highly improbable. My mind tells me this.
The Flyers have largely contained the Ovechkin menace in this series; he has only one goal and five points in five playoff games thus far. One game is merely a statistical anomaly. The facts, properly calculated, are clearly in my favor.
All the signs point to victory. My conscious self recognizes the data, recieves it and processes it yielding the conclusion that the Flyers should win this playoff series.
And yet there is an unformed thought which dances in the fog at the periphery of my reason. It is a malice made all the more forbidding by its lack of shape, a fear with no name. A sense that despite all signs to the contrary, something is amiss. Something is wrong here, very wrong.
Remember, dear friends, that Leonidas was winning the battle of Thermopylae immediately before he was betrayed. It is always in that moment when we reach out for certain victory that we are defeated. Those whom Fate would humble she must first make proud.
I fear the predators lying in wait outside the reach of our campfire's light. I fear icy fingers of the shapeless night. I fear...
The Caveman.
Pick: Flyers 2, Capitals 4.
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