By Franklin — SoFlo Sports Buzz
June 13, 2025
Let me just start by saying I need someone to check on me. No, seriously. I was fine, I was soaring, I was dancing in my living room with a hot pastelito in one hand and a plastic rat in the other… and now I’m sitting in the dark, staring at the wall like I just got dumped via voicemail.
We were up 3–0 after the first period.
Three goals. THREE. It was beautiful.
Tkachuk was back to being a menace. The Oilers were falling apart. Skinner got yanked like a bad karaoke singer. It was like Game 3 all over again, only better because I had extra empanadas and a good feeling in my gut.
And then…
…The Universe Turned on Me.
Second period starts, and suddenly the Oilers remember how to play hockey. Nugent-Hopkins snipes one on the power play. Fine. Whatever. One goal. No big deal.
Then Nurse scores. Then Podkolzin. Now it’s tied 3-3 and I’ve spilled my drink, punched a pillow, and yelled “NOPE” at the TV like it was a haunted house. I was pacing so hard I got 4,000 steps in my kitchen alone.
By the third period I’m just begging the hockey gods to keep it together, and Jake Walman — yes, the same Jake Walman who squirted water at our bench and got fined like some hockey-themed supervillain — fires a howitzer past Bob and suddenly it’s 4–3 Oilers.
I may have blacked out. I think I ate part of a coaster.
The Hope That Hurt the Most
But wait… SAM REINHART.
With 19.5 seconds left, he ties it. TIES. IT.
The house erupted. I high-fived my neighbor through the window. I said, “We’re a team of destiny.” My abuela texted me “VAMOS.” All was right again. Overtime was just a formality. A victory lap.
And then… Draisaitl.
Overtime. Minute 11. The Oilers’ big man just ends it.
No penalties. No controversy. Just the Oilers taking our hearts out with a soup spoon and smiling while doing it. What in the world was I talking about again?
I Am Emotionally Bankrupt
We had it. Like, really had it. We looked like champions. And then we looked like a balloon in a thunderstorm.
You know how many teams in Stanley Cup Final history have come back from 3–0 down to win? SEVEN. Ever. This was the first time it happened on the road since the year Woodrow freaking Wilson was president. I can’t even.
I want to scream into a flamingo-shaped pillow and then eat a sandwich with way too much mustard.
So Now What?
We go to Edmonton for Game 5. The series is tied 2–2, and momentum is in a stolen suitcase heading north. We need to remember who we are. The Florida Panthers. The beard gang. The chaos cats. Bob’s gotta bounce back. Tkachuk’s gotta stay hot. And everyone else? Start acting like they want that Cup in the parade next to a DJ booth on Ocean Drive.
I believe in this team. I do. But I also need a nap, a hug, and possibly a priest.