THE FLORIDA PANTHERS ARE BLEEDING OUT ON HOME ICE & I’M LOSING MY RELIGION

 The Florida Panthers are officially in that part of the movie where the hero is face-down on the pavement, the soundtrack is sad as hell, and the camera slowly zooms out while everyone wonders how the hell we got here.

A week ago, the Cats beat Nashville 8–3 in their own damn barn while the Panthers dads were in cowboy hats, drinking beer, and looking like they were about to headline Stagecoach.

We thought the vibes were immaculate.

We thought we were cooking.

We thought we were Them.

Fast forward… Four. Straight. L’s.

Five out of six gone sideways.

A home losing streak so nasty it has 2020 energy — and nobody wants 2020 energy.

The Predators walked into Sunrise last night, stole our joy, stole our lunch money, stole our power plays, hugged Andrew Brunette on the way out, and left the entire fanbase staring at the ceiling like,

“No way we’re doing this again.”

But here we are.

IT SHOULD COUNT AS COMMUNITY SERVICE

The Panthers went scoreless in six attempts during their power plays

Zero.

Six tries.

Nothing.

Nada.

A Krispy Kreme box of donuts.

Carter Verhaeghe came back from having a whole ass newborn child, scores the only Panthers goal of the night, and the rest of the team responded like:
“What if we just… didn’t join him?”

We had a four-minute PP after Lundell got sliced under his eye, FOUR MINUTES, and the Panthers treated it like an arts-and-crafts project. Just vibes. No violence. No finishing. Just passing the puck around like it was a group project and nobody wanted to be the leader.

And then Nashville?

They looked like they were trying to kill penalties for fun. Like it was cardio. Like it was SoulCycle for psychopaths.

Juuse Saros, who got dunked on for eight goals in Nashville, suddenly turned into a hybrid of Dominik Hasek, the 2003 Devils, and a brick f**king wall.

THE panthers out here looking like A GLEE CLUB

We have to do better for Sergei Bobrovsky sake because he definitely deserved way better.

He deserved flowers. He deserved a handwritten letter from the NHL saying, “Sorry your team refuses to help you.”

The man stood on his head for three periods — made huge saves, bailed out the team, saved a damn Stamkos goal with help from Mikkola’s Baseball Bat of God — and what did Florida do?

Went into the third period like:

“Let’s immediately take two penalties and hand the Preds all the momentum.”

Nashville outshot the Panthers 12–3 in the third. Twelve to three. This is a home game, not a hostage negotiation.

Then when the tying goal finally came?

You could feel the whole arena sink like someone unplugged the emotional WiFi.

OT rolls around and Florida controls the puck early… but it’s like trying to cook dinner with no stove. You can stir things all you want, nothing’s getting hot.

Then Forsling slides into Bob, the net goes flying, Bob falls, Stamkos, Patron Saint of Ruining Our Evenings, whacks a prayer at the crease and wins it.

Of course he did.

Of course.

A SCHEDULE CRAFTED BY WAR CRIMINALS

We could’ve used this homestand as a trampoline.

Instead, we faceplanted off it like a last-place figure skater.

Now we’ve got:

         Blue Jackets

         Islanders

         Utah

         Colorado

         Dallas

         Tampa Bay

All back-to-back chaos, elevation, traps, demons, and teams that hate our existence.

This isn’t a schedule, this is a gauntlet invented by someone who once got cut off in traffic by a Panthers fan.

The Panthers are in a crisis. Not a “blow everything up” crisis, not yet, but the vibes are absolute dogsh*t.

The scoring is dry.

The confidence is brittle.

The fans are stressed.

Bobrovsky is seeing more shots than a South Beach bartender.

But Carter Verhaeghe said it best:

“It was a tight game… we’ll take the point and hope it leads to something better.”

Hope. Faith.

Desperation.

This is where the Panthers show it if they still have championship DNA.

Because right now?

It feels like we’re watching the 2022–23 Panthers documentary… but backwards.