The End. Ugh.

It's been an hour since time expired on Game 7. One hour since the season ended early for the Penguins. The players are probably still leaving the locker room, disheartened and reeling in the pain of defeat. The light will soon be switched off for the last time, empty stalls waiting for the pre-season.

I should be proud of my team. I should be thrilled with how they performed without their superstars. Crosby missed 48 games, Geno missed 46 games, Staal missed 40. To put this into perspective: Take the Miami Heat. Eliminate Lebron James and Dwayne Wade at the same time. Now, put that team in the playoffs. That is the equivalent.

I should marvel over their endurance, their character, and their perseverance. I should be over-the-moon with Flower's performance. I should find comfort in knowing that there is always next season, a new season with healthy players. I should be content knowing that the Pens have the greatest coach in the NHL. I should be happy that my boy Staalsy played like a man possessed in his last two games.

...and I am. Still, I'm upset. Really upset. It wasn't supposed to end like this. The Pens were supposed to prove that they have more depth than the only two players ever mentioned on ESPN. I'm also left wondering if Sidney Crosby is actually alive. Was that person we've seen sitting in the box during this series a hologram? What if he hadn't suffered a concussion? What if his headache had gone away a little earlier? What if the power play had found more success than my cartwheel attempts?

I tried to make my peace with this season, but I couldn't. I refused to write my team off when everyone else had. I refused to believe that they wouldn't clinch home ice in the playoffs. I refused to believe they couldn't perform without Sid and Geno. I refused to believe that they would lose Game 7. I might have said they would lose, but I didn't mean it. That was my defense mechanism, a desperate attempt to safeguard myself in case they lost.

But now, it's a reality. The season is over, the Pens have been sentenced to an early summer of khaki shorts and golf, and I'm facing a harsh new reality: Baseball season. It's time to move on. Sometimes, I feel like Jimmy Fallon in Fever Pitch. When you reach the point where the athletes themselves might actually console you, there is a serious problem.

So, with more than a few tears in my eyes, I'm moving on. I'm taking deep breaths. I'm cutting my losses. I won't let the endless 'What ifs' get me down. There's no point, anymore. I'm proud of what my boys accomplished when faced with so much adversity, but I'm even more excited for next season. Because as much as I hate it when people tell me this, there is always next season.


See you in October, boys!