There is blood in the water. It's rising and it's spreading. It's all globby and gross and fresh and it reeks of iron and guts.

Hank Zetterberg, most likely still unable to give the Chicago series much rational thought, has got to find the wounded animal beneath the surface of all that blood. Then he and his friends have go to tear that thing to pieces.

I haven't watch a period of hockey this season. Not one minute. I have no idea if Zetterberg is actually hobbled, slowed, aged. I've read some of you believe he is. I don't doubt it. We all know that of all the Wings he takes the most punishment.

It was Hank who essentially told Pierre to take his microphone and stick it in his happy place, seconds after Brent Seabrook crushed our souls about 24 months ago.

As much as the Tampa GM hated, and hates, to lose? I think--despite what garbage Don Cherry would claim--our current captain rivals The Captain in that regard.

And I don't think he will let us lose tonight. He's lost, but he's not a beautiful loser. He hates it. And he recognizes an opportunity tonight to avoid that feeling, for at least the remainder of this series.

3-1 means the series. It means the series because this captain will not let the Wings lose again. Not like that. Not again.

2-2 and that blood starts to shift and ebb. 2-2 and the legs may start to weaken, with the jaw going two games after.

Trust the wisdom of the old man, who's dreaming like a young one. Just like Bullet Bob tells us to.

It's a Live Blog, bitches.