I'm not yet able to talk about last night's game. In fact, it traumatized me so much that I've spent the last hour or so just sitting and working on the Turkey photos for this website, which I've posted here. They're not finished, but I thought it would be better to finally put some up.

The Wings were thirty-five seconds from the Stanley Cup. They had the cup in the building and then boom—the Penguins scored.

The first overtime was so great, so exciting, I started feeling thankful just to be watching it. Of course, the Wings were taking most of the shots. The Penguins were down, having lost a couple of players to injury in the final minutes of regulation. I thought a few times about where I was the last time the Red Wings won the Stanley Cup, in 2002—I had been visiting my brother in Los Angeles at the end of a cross-country drive. We cheered the Wings and then drank to Detroit, the city made so happy by the victory. But then I also started thinking about an acquaintance of my sister, a Red Sox fan whose hands had literally been on the champagne bottle in 1986. Would this game end that way? It seemed unlikely, given the absurd number of shots the Wings were getting. But for every six or seven shots Detroit would take, Pittsburgh would get one or two, and all it takes is one shot.

And, towards the end of three overtimes, that shot came. There was no Igor Larianov to save the day this time.