[jg2977]

BLACKHAWKS BLOW IT, VEGAS WINS, EVERYONE LOSES
by Frank Reynolds — rat wrestler, war dog, man of business

Alright. Let me paint you a picture here, alright? You’re sittin’ on a 3-2 series lead. You’ve got 14 hits. You got 14 hits! That’s a buffet! That’s a freakin’ Sizzler, alright? You gotta EAT when you got that kind of spread. You close the deal, you take the win, you go home, you hose off. But what do the Blackhawks do?

They leave 11 guys on base. ELEVEN.
That’s not baseball. That’s a waste management crisis.

Let’s Talk About Salgado… Or Don’t, Actually
Now I’m not here to roast the pitching, but I’m absolutely here to roast the pitching. Salgado goes out there and gives up five dingers like he’s handing out free t-shirts at a freakin’ casino opening. Every inning, it’s like “Hey, who wants to take a victory lap?” BOOM! Home run. BOOM! Another one. I haven’t seen that many balls leave the park since the time I tried to run a fight club outta that Little League dugout.

And that’s not even the worst of it — Gould? Rivera? They might as well have been throwing meatballs soaked in kerosene. Vegas lit them up like a bum’s trash fire behind Paddy’s.

Barbashev? That Guy’s an Assassin
This guy Barbashev, right? He's out there like a cold-blooded Russian hitman, just destroying souls. Two homers, a walk, scores twice — probably kicked someone in the teeth on the way out. That man hits like he owes money to nobody and fears nothing. He’s not playing baseball, he’s waging psychological warfare with a Louisville Slugger.

And then there’s Bob Tiller. That little SOB hits for the cycle minus a triple, if anyone was paying attention. Single, double, homer. Dude looked like he was just hitting buttons on a pinball machine — DING DING DING, Jackpot!

Chicago’s Offense: All Bark, No Mauling
Listen, I love a good offensive game. I’m a man of appetites, alright? And this game had me licking my freakin’ fingers until I looked at the LOB column. ELEVEN. LEFT. ON. BASE. You’ve got Connor Bedard, you’ve got Nick “The Folignator” Foligno, you’ve got this Hextall kid smashing dingers — and what do you do?

You strand them like rats on a floating mattress.

You score 7 runs, you hit doubles, triples, homers, you steal bases — and you STILL lose? That's not unlucky. That's self-sabotage. That’s Charlie trying to cook a steak in a toaster.

Fielding? Don’t Even Talk to Me
Chicago turned three double plays. Sounds good, right? Wrong. That was just damage control because your pitching staff was getting shelled like a sardine factory. Meanwhile, Vegas is throwing guys out at second, at home, probably from the parking lot — Barbashev and Squillino just hosing people down like it’s freakin’ Normandy.

And that Sanchez kid? Two hit-by-pitches and zero hits. Buddy, were you even awake?

Conclusion: We’re Going to Game 7, and I Need a Drink
We’re heading back to Chicago now. And if I were the Blackhawks? I’d lock the gates, light some candles, and summon a demon, because that’s what it’s gonna take to stop Barbashev and Tiller now. These Vegas guys are jacked up on momentum, churros, and God knows what else.

Chicago had the game in its hands, and they let it slip through like spaghetti in a wet paper bag. Frankly? I respect it. That’s a real scumbag move, and I know a thing or two about scumbag moves.

Game 7’s on Wednesday. Somebody bring me a gun and a wet nap.

— Frank Reynolds,
Bloodhound of Baseball, Co-Owner of Paddy’s Pub (and your mom’s favorite sports analyst)