[jg2977]

Listen to me, okay? The Montreal Canadiens, they don’t wanna die, man. Everybody say, “These guys, they finished, they go down four games, Islanders sweep ’em out.” But no, hermano — not today. Today, the Canadiens, they stand up, they fight like cockroaches, you can’t kill them.
You got this guy Newman, they call him “Postal Worker.” I tell you something — he don’t deliver no letters, he deliver pain. Boom! Two bombs, a double, three hits, three runs, two knocked in. This guy, he’s like me, chico — when he come to work, he come heavy. Islanders pitchers, they crying, “Please, Newman, no more!” But Newman? He don’t care. Say hello to his little bat.
And Peterman, this guy hit two shots too, del Sol drop one, Dai smack two — everybody eating, man. Islanders, they swing the sticks, yeah, fifteen hits, four homers, they fight. But their pitchers? Garbage. Casarez, Brace, Rivera, Stigter — all of them get lit up, like fireworks in Havana. Too many souvenirs for the fans, hermano.
The Canadiens, they win this one, 9–7, keep themselves alive, now the series is 3–1. Islanders still in control, but Montreal? They breathing. And you never underestimate a man who still breathing, chico.
Next game, they go back to Belmont. Islanders want to finish the job, Canadiens say, “Not so fast, mang.” Me? I watch. I enjoy. Hockey, baseball, whatever this is — I don’t care. All I know is Newman, he the man today.