TAMPA – Game 7.
It’s the game dreams are born from.
It’s the vision formed in a dimly lit backyard rink by two siblings skating around on a patchwork sheet of ice. One suited up in goal, baseball glove on hand, staring down the other who comes in, puck on the blade of a weather-worn stick.
One final shot, one last chance to strike before it’s time to head back in through the basement for the night.
But not before the self-made announcement “He skates in alone, Game 7 on the line . . . He shoots . . . . . HE SCOOOOOOOORES’’ as the puck tickles the twine at the back of the net.
It’s never Game ...
