National Baseball League

[jg2977]

NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE – MONTREAL AT LONG ISLAND
September 23, 2004

I knew it. I knew it was going to happen. Montreal jumps out with four runs in the first and I’m thinking, “Yeah, this is too good. It won’t last. It never lasts.” And sure enough, Long Island answers right back. Four runs. Just like that. Of course.
By the fifth, Montreal goes ahead again—del Sol crushes a three-run homer, and I almost let myself believe. Seven to four. You’d think maybe this time it’s different. But no. No, it’s never different. Long Island just… waits. Sixth inning, a homer. Seventh inning, Bauer—Jack Bauer—because of course his name is Jack Bauer—hits the two-run bomb that rips the game away. Nine-seven. And I knew right then. Game over.
Then the eighth… Clark homers, Bernabel homers. Eleven to seven. You just sit there watching it unravel, helpless, like a car rolling backward out of the driveway, and you can’t stop it. You scream, but it doesn’t matter. It’s gone.
Roman was awful for Montreal—seven runs, three homers in four innings. Paulino and Qian weren’t much better. Honestly, nobody was. The bullpen was like pouring gas on a fire. Meanwhile, Long Island’s relievers? Untouchable. Of course they were.
And Jack Bauer… I don’t even want to talk about him. Two-for-three, four RBIs, hit by a pitch, scores twice. He’s everywhere. He’s everything. He’s inevitable. He’s the reason Montreal is down 0–1 in this series.
So yeah. Long Island wins, 11–7. They’ll probably win the series too. Montreal will fight, they’ll make it look close, but in the end? It’s always the same. Islanders on top, Canadiens going home.
And you know what the worst part is? I’ll still watch the next game. I’ll still hope. And I’ll still be crushed when it all falls apart. Again.

[jg2977]

“Let me start with this…”

The New York Rangers didn’t just beat the Florida Panthers last night. They embarrassed them. Seventeen to one. That’s not a hockey score, that’s a high school football blowout. That’s 59–0 on a Friday night in Texas.
And this is what I always say about great teams: you can tell who they are by the energy they bring in Game 1. The good ones feel it out. The great ones? They go for the throat. New York went for the throat.
Itsuro Bliebernicht—remember the name—was the best player on the ice, the court, the field, you name it. Four-for-five, two bombs, two doubles, seven RBIs. That’s not a performance, that’s a demolition. It’s Shaq against the Kings in the early 2000s. It’s Brady against the Jaguars. Total mismatch.
And Florida? Folks, they looked like what they are: a nice little team that’s happy to be here. Two hits, one run, sixteen strikeouts. They weren’t ready. This was a varsity–JV scrimmage, and the JV bus broke down on the way to the game.
Now—here’s the truth about New York. When they get this kind of production from their stars, they’re unbeatable. Cuylle with two home runs, Kramer with a bomb, Rice with a bomb—everybody’s hitting. Twenty hits, seventeen runs. That’s what a title team looks like in September.
Florida’s pitching? It was a horror show. McCutcheon, Martinez, Rivera, Tamura, Hernandez—you could’ve pulled five guys out of the Madison Square Garden concessions line and gotten the same result.
The bottom line is this: New York has the better players, the deeper bullpen, and the bigger moment guys. You can win one game with grit. You can’t win a series with grit. You win it with stars. And New York’s stars showed up in Game 1.
Seventeen to one. That’s not a win. That’s a message.

[jg2977]

“AAAAH-HA-HA-HAAA!! Okay, okay, so, uh… the Blackhawks… they actually won something!!”

So Colorado comes out swinging, right? Two in the first, two in the second, and I’m like, “Oh nooo, it’s déjà vu all over again, here comes another Chicago collapse!!” But then—BOOM—Ron Hextall! This guy’s a shortstop, but he’s out there like he’s Babe Ruth with a hangover! Triples, homers, three RBIs—somebody drug test him, I swear to God!
And Hyun-woo Kim—oh my God, he’s just smacking the ball around like he’s at a company softball game, two hits, three RBIs, and he’s smiling like, “Yeah, this is fine, this is totally normal.” Meanwhile, Colorado’s pitchers are out there looking like they forgot what sport this is—Amador’s tossing beach balls, Kim’s walking seven guys, it’s like Oprah out there: “You get a walk, you get a walk, EVERYBODY GETS A WALK!!”
Chicago ends up winning 9-6, and the United Center crowd is going nuts—41,000 people, cloudy skies, windy, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t heard this much screaming in Chicago since somebody mentioned deep-dish pizza is basically lasagna with a crust.
And look, the Avalanche had their moments—MacKinnon hit one, Makar hit one, Okuhara hit one—but it didn’t matter! Every time they scored, Chicago just slapped ‘em back harder! It’s like watching two kids fight with pool noodles, except one kid duct-taped a brick to his noodle!
So now the Hawks are up 1-0 in the series, and the manager’s all calm, “We’re one game closer to our goal.” And I’m like—YEAH, JON, YOUR GOAL IS TO GIVE HALF YOUR FANS HEART ATTACKS BEFORE SEPTEMBER ENDS!!
Tomorrow they do it again, same place, same chaos. I can’t wait—though my vocal cords might not survive!
“AAAH-HAA-HAAA-HAAA-HAAA!!!”

[jg2977]

On a cool September afternoon in Los Angeles, with the shadows beginning to stretch across the field at Staples Center, the Kings opened their Conference Semifinal series in a way that was both methodical and dramatic. A 7–3 victory over Dallas, paced by a young man named Corey Perry, who seemed to have an answer for every situation.

Perry, still just a shortstop in name but very much the engine of this lineup, collected four hits in five tries. A single here, another there, and then the thunderclap—a triple into the gap in the fifth inning, two runners aboard, the Kings trailing by one. Suddenly, with the swing of a bat, the deficit became a lead, the ballpark alive in a way that only postseason baseball can bring.

For Dallas, there were moments of promise. A home run by Brayden Grubin, a double by Montez, and for a fleeting instant in the middle innings, a 3–2 advantage. But like so many October stories, opportunity slipped through their fingers. A ground ball here, a strikeout there, runners left stranded as the game tilted back toward Los Angeles.

Anze Kopitar added a home run of his own—one of those majestic drives that seemed to pause against the backdrop of a California sky before finding its resting place in the seats. Tim Wahl, the winning pitcher, bent but did not break, holding the Stars to four hits over six and a third innings. And when the bullpen door opened, Donahue and Espitia closed it with efficiency and calm.

The final line told the story clearly enough—seven runs on twelve hits for Los Angeles, three runs on four hits for Dallas. But in the postseason, numbers rarely capture the essence. What lingers instead are the images: Perry’s triple rolling into the corner, Kopitar’s home run sailing into the night, and a crowd of 55,724 rising together, sensing this might be the beginning of something special.

So the Kings take a 1–0 lead in the best-of-seven series, with Game Two tomorrow here in Los Angeles. And as Corey Perry quipped to a young fan holding a "Kings 2004 Champions" sign after the game, “Premature, but I like the confidence.”

On this night, at least, the Kings looked every bit like champions in waiting.

[jg2977]

🎙️ REN (snarling, overcaffeinated):
"Eeeediots! The Canadiens thought they had a chance today, but HOOO BOY, the Islanders shoved a nine-run stink-bomb right down their hockey-puck throats in the fifth inning!!"
🎙️ STIMPY (giggly, dopey):
"Oooh, Ren! That was a huge inning! Mike Bossy hit a biiiiig, shiny home run! It was so beautiful… I wanted to kiss it! Mmmwah!"
🎙️ REN:
"Don’t be a fool, Stimpy! Bossy only went one-for-three, but when he did connect—POW! Two runs, two RBIs, and two reasons Montreal is sobbing into their poutine tonight!"
🎙️ STIMPY:
"Heehee, and Alex Esparza… oh boy! He hit one that went so far it probably landed in New Jersey! With him and Vinnie Hixson tripling, it was like a big ol’ piñata party! Candy for everybody!"
🎙️ REN (mocking Montreal):
"And what about Franklin Gonzalez, huh? Four and a third innings, six earned runs, ERA twelve-point-forty-six! Twelve! That’s not pitching, that’s a piñata exploding on the mound, you bloated sack of protoplasm!"
🎙️ STIMPY (sing-song):
"Montreal did get twelve hits though, Ren! They hit doubles, they hit homers… they just didn’t, uh… WIN! Heehee!"
🎙️ REN:
"That’s because the Islanders defense turned two double plays, Bauer robbed Sanchez at third, and Slater out of the bullpen said ‘No soup for you, Canadiens!’ You can’t score if you’re busy crying, eediots!"
🎙️ STIMPY (gleeful):
"So now the Islanders are up 2-0 in the series, Ren! Next game is in Montreal! Maybe the Canadiens can win at home… maybe they can’t… maybe they’ll just sit there making fart noises!"
🎙️ REN (screeching finale):
"Shut up, Stimpy! The Islanders CRUSHED them, NINE to THREE! Bossy is the king, the Canadiens are cooked goose, and if they don’t wake up fast… this series is over, you miserable ice-dwelling eediots!!"

[jg2977]

GRUBIN GUNS DOWN CATS — RANGERS MAUL FLORIDA, 14-6
By Daily News Sports Staff
Call it a Broadway beatdown. The Rangers turned Madison Square Garden into a house of horrors for the Florida Panthers Friday night, unloading for seven runs in the second inning and never looking back in a 14-6 blowout to grab a 2-0 series lead in the Conference Semifinals.
The star of the show? Mark Grubin. The left fielder lit up the Garden faithful with a three-run bomb in the second and finished the night 2-for-3 with three RBIs, three runs scored, two walks, and three stolen bases.
“Big games need big swings,” Grubin said afterward. “We’ve got the momentum, and we’re not letting go.”
He wasn’t alone. The Rangers’ offense was a sledgehammer:
Ike Bliebernicht launched a grand slam in the sixth, giving him three homers and 11 RBIs in just two games of the series.
Will Cuylle went deep again in the eighth — his third of the postseason.
Avery Grubin added a three-run shot of his own in that second-inning onslaught.
Florida tried to claw back with late homers from Eddie van de Griendt, Niko Jaffre, and Zhao Shih, but it was too little, too late against an offense firing on every cylinder.
Panthers starter Jose Alvarado was rocked for seven runs before escaping the second inning, and the bullpen didn’t fare much better. By the time the carnage was over, Florida pitching had surrendered four long balls and handed the Rangers a commanding advantage.
On the mound, Sergio Godinez battled through 7.1 shaky innings, giving up three homers himself but keeping the lead intact before handing it off to the bullpen.
The Rangers now head south with swagger and a 2-0 cushion. Game 3 is Sunday in Sunrise, where Florida faces a must-win to avoid the brink.
Daily News Back Page Headline:
"GRUBIN SHOW!"

[jg2977]

You know what Saturday night’s game between Dallas and L.A. told me? It’s the same thing sports always tells us: some guys shrink, and some guys rise. And Amenzu Jabiri? He’s a riser.
The guy goes 4-for-4, two bombs, five RBIs, reaches base every single time. That’s not luck. That’s a star saying, “Yeah, this is my stage.” Dallas doesn’t win without him. Period. That’s the difference between having a dude and not having a dude.
And you look at the Kings — they’re a talented roster, no doubt. Kopitar, Perry, Molina — these guys can hit. They hung around. They traded blows. But here’s the truth: they don’t have a Jabiri. They don’t have that singular player who tilts the field, who makes the crowd sit forward in their seat. Dallas does.
And here’s what I love — when the game was tied late, who showed up? Armando Pagan. One swing, eighth inning, gone. A clutch two-run shot. Dallas doesn’t just have the superstar in Jabiri, they’ve got the role players who aren’t afraid of the moment. That’s a culture. That’s a room that believes.
The Kings? They got what a lot of teams in this league have: nice players. Productive players. But in the postseason, nice doesn’t win. “Pretty good” doesn’t move on. Great wins. Clutch wins. The guy who hits the ball 410 feet into the cheap seats when it matters most wins.
So the series is tied 1-1, heading back to Dallas. But here’s the thing — if you’re L.A., you’ve got to be worried. You had your chance to grab the stranglehold. You were at home. And you let Jabiri walk into your building and own the night. That’s not just a loss, that’s a message.
Dallas just told the Kings: we’ve got the best player, and we’ve got the momentum. And in playoff hockey, in playoff baseball, in playoff anything — that usually decides the series.

[jg2977]

NHL PLAYOFFS – COLORADO AT CHICAGO
OH MY GOD!! CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS DISASTER?! THE AVALANCHE SHOWED UP IN CHICAGO—AND THEN THEY JUST… DIED!! DIED!!!
It was supposed to be a hockey game, right? Two teams, battle it out, conference semis, drama, intensity—YEAH, NO!! By the fifth inning—YES, FIFTH INNING—Colorado is down TEN TO NOTHING!! TEN!! TO NOTHING!!
Jack Klompus—this guy—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! BASES LOADED, TWO OUTS, GRAND SLAM!! GRAND SLAM!! OH-OH-OH-OHHHH!!! The United Center sounded like a jet engine taking off while Colorado’s dugout looked like they were watching their dog get run over.
And Colorado’s pitching staff? J. Archuleta, A. Garza—WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! SEVEN RUNS, THEN THREE MORE, LIKE OPRAH GIVING AWAY CARS! “YOU GET A RUN! YOU GET A RUN! EVERYBODY GETS A RUN!!”
The Avalanche tried to claw back—Sanchez hits one, Okuhara smacks a double, they scrape together six runs—but WHO CARES?! You can’t spot a team TEN and then act like it’s a comeback story! IT’S NOT ROCKY, IT’S A CRIME SCENE!!
Meanwhile, the Blackhawks are popping champagne in the dugout, up 2-0 in the series, coasting into Denver like they just stole your car AND YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!
Final score: Chicago 12, Colorado 6. Player of the game? Jack freakin’ Klompus. TWO hits, FOUR RBIs, and he basically BURIED Colorado in the fifth inning. HE KILLED THEM!! HE KILLED THEM DEAD!!!
Game 3? Monday night in Denver. Avalanche fans, bring tissues. LOTS OF THEM. AAAAHHHHHH!!!!

[jg2977]

NHL PLAYOFFS – LONG ISLAND AT MONTREAL
Man, the Montreal Canadiens… whew. These dudes are down bad. They got worked by the Long Island Islanders, AGAIN, 7–4. That’s three straight L’s. Montreal ain’t just losing, they on vacation already! Bell Centre lookin’ like a crime scene.
Now Long Island? They got this dude Adrie Sijtsma. TWO homers. FIVE RBIs. He beat Montreal so bad, I thought the Canadiens were gonna file charges. This man out here like, “Oh, you throwin’ a sinker? I sink your SEASON!”
Meanwhile, Jose Salgado—Montreal’s starter—gave up six runs in three innings. SIX! Bruh was out there serving batting practice! I’ve seen pitching machines put up better resistance. His ERA after this game? FOURTEEN. Point. SEVEN. That ain’t pitching, that’s arson!
And don’t even get me started on Montreal’s defense—three errors! THREE! You can’t win playoff games giving out runs like they free samples at Costco.
Islanders now up 3-0 in the series. Montreal gotta win four straight just to survive. FOUR STRAIGHT! Man, you can’t win four straight when you can’t even win ONE. That’s like saying, “I ain’t paid my rent in three months, but next week, I’ma buy a mansion.” IT AIN’T HAPPENING!
Final score: Long Island 7, Montreal 4. Islanders cruising, Canadiens snoozing. Game 4 tomorrow—Montreal better bring something, ‘cause right now they’re just out here embarrassing Canada.

[jg2977]

So the New York Rangers stroll into Florida, right? They’re supposed to be in a hockey series, but apparently somebody forgot to tell them they weren’t playing the goddamn Yankees, because they dropped nineteen runs. Nineteen! That’s not a hockey score, that’s what you get when you put a tee-ball team up against Barry Bonds in his prime.
Will Cuylle — this guy goes out there and just ruins the Panthers’ night. Six hits, two bombs, a triple, a double… I’m pretty sure he hit for the cycle twice and still had time to steal a bag just to be a jerk. He scores six runs. Six! That’s like scoring a hat trick in hockey and then asking, “Eh, you mind if I score three more just for cardio?”
Meanwhile, Florida… Jesus Christ. You ever watch a kid try to ride a bike for the first time? Just wobbling, panicking, then immediately face-planting into a mailbox? That was their pitching staff. They’re out there getting lit up like a piñata at a five-year-old’s birthday party. Every guy they threw on the mound — boom, double, boom, home run, boom, there goes your ERA. I think by the end they were just pulling guys out of the concessions line. “Hey, you selling pretzels? Get in there, you’re pitching the ninth.”
And the Rangers… they’re up three games to none in the series. It’s over. Just pack it up, Panthers. Call it a season. Go to the beach, grab a margarita, pretend this never happened. ‘Cause this? This wasn’t a playoff game. This was a crime scene.

[jg2977]

“On a warm September evening in Dallas, with the wind pushing gently out to left, baseball gave us one of those games you don’t soon forget. The Los Angeles Kings and the Dallas Stars, two teams with names better suited for the rink, met on the diamond instead. And what unfolded was as much a tale of resilience as it was of heartbreak.”
“For Dallas, the story was Carlos Cuellar. Three swings, three home runs. A performance that on most nights would’ve been the headliner, the hero’s tale. He hit the ball with such authority you could almost hear the sighs of relief from fans who had come hoping for a spark. And yet, baseball can be cruel. Even on a night when Cuellar touched the stars, the scoreboard favored the visitors.”
“For Los Angeles, it was Jesus Valdespino who played the quiet assassin. A single here, another there, and then in the eighth inning, with the game teetering, a sharp line drive past the infield that plated two. A 5–3 lead became their lifeline. And when catcher Alan Bryan followed with a thunderous home run, the Kings had built just enough cushion to withstand the storm that came in the ninth.”
“Dallas, true to form, did not go quietly. Back-to-back home runs from Costanza and Grubin cut the lead to a single run, and suddenly 42,000 in attendance found their voices. But as is so often the case, the rally ended not with fireworks, but with a soft ground ball and the echo of gloves popping.”
“The final: Los Angeles 7, Dallas 6. The Kings now lead the series two games to one. And while Carlos Cuellar may have stolen the headlines, it was Valdespino and his steady bat who quietly carried the night. Baseball, once again reminding us that it is both a team game and a stage for individual brilliance — sometimes all in the same breath.”

[jg2977]

ALRIGHT, LISTEN TO ME HERE, FOLKS!
You cannot — I repeat, cannot — lose a hockey-slash-baseball-slash-whatever hybrid game when TWO GUYS HIT FOR THE CYCLE! You just can’t! And yet, that’s exactly what the Chicago Blackhawks just did in Denver.
Ron Hextall — yes, THAT Ron Hextall, a goaltender by trade — goes out there, collects FOUR hits, one of ‘em leaves the yard, racks up two RBIs, and oh by the way swipes a bag for good measure. Jack Klompus — who I didn’t even know was still in the league, I thought he was arguing about condos in Del Boca Vista with Seinfeld’s parents — HE hits for the cycle too! one bomb, three RBIs! The guy’s stat line looks like something out of a video game. And what do the Blackhawks do with it? They blow it!
Final score? Colorado 13, Chicago 12. Nathan MacKinnon — superstar, clutch, you name it — walks it off with a double in the ninth, the building’s shaking, and now the Avalanche are back in this series.
But I’m telling you right now — if I’m a Blackhawks fan, I don’t sleep tonight. You score twelve runs, you get eighteen hits, you have TWO guys hitting for the cycle — and you LOSE? That’s a disgrace. That’s an abomination. That’s one of the worst losses I’ve seen in postseason history.
And don’t give me this “oh the pitching was tired, oh the bullpen got thin” — nonsense! Win the ballgame! Salgado, Morales, Rivera, whoever was out there throwing beach balls — I don’t care! Close it out!
Meanwhile, Colorado, give ‘em credit. MacKinnon, Foligno, Makar, Okuhara — they just kept coming. Every time Chicago landed a haymaker, Colorado got back up. That’s championship DNA, right there.
But mark my words: we will be talking about this one for YEARS. The night the Blackhawks had TWO cycles — TWO! — and still walked off the ice — or the field — or whatever it is — LOSERS.
It’s madness, folks. Absolute madness.

[jg2977]

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[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.

[jg2977]

New York Rangers: 21st Conference Finals appearance
1981 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004

**“Say hello to the bad guys of hockey, mang! The New York Rangers, they don’t play around, okay? They go down to Florida, they sweep these Panthers like cockroaches, 4-0, boom! Gone. Twelve to seven, final score. That’s domination, chico. That’s power.
You see my boy Will Cuylle? Hah! The MVP, mang. He hit like a machine gun. .778 average, .826 on base, seven bombs, twelve RBIs, fifteen runs. You know what that is? That’s not hockey, that’s war. And he won it.
The Rangers, they don’t even know who they face next, Canadiens or Islanders, don’t matter, mang. You line ‘em up, Rangers knock ‘em down. That’s twenty-one trips to the Conference Finals. That’s history, chico.
Florida? They tried, yeah, they swing, they hit a couple homers, but at the end of the night, the Rangers had too much firepower. You can’t stop soldiers like that.
Remember this: in this league, first you win the games… then you get the respect… and then, chico, you get the Cup. Say hello to the New York Rangers, mang—the baddest team left standing.”**

[jg2977]

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[jg2977]

Aw, jeez, Mister Wilson! You shoulda seen this one! It was the NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE but they weren’t playin’ hockey, no sir—they were bashin’ baseballs all over the place like it was the Fourth of July!
So here’s what happened:
The Los Angeles Kings came over to Dallas, and boy, they thought they were gonna win. They even smacked a couple o’ home runs—this fella Anze Kopitar hit two of ‘em! Two! But then the Dallas Stars went totally bananas in the third inning. Nine runs! Nine! That’s like when Joey down the street eats nine hot dogs and then throws up behind the swing set.
This catcher guy, Teiji Miyata—he bonked a double when all the bases were full, and everybody went runnin’ home like they were chasin’ down the ice cream truck. Then some other Dallas fellas started hittin’ homers too—Jabiri, Montez, even Park got one. It was like kaboom! kaboom! kaboom! and the poor Kings pitchers were lookin’ like they wanted to take their ball and go home.
By the end, the scoreboard looked like my report card—numbers all over the place! Dallas had 16 runs, Los Angeles had 9, and I think the hot dog guy outside probably scored too. The crowd at the American Airlines Center was goin’ nuts, and I probably woulda got in trouble for climbin’ the fence if I was there.
Oh, and get this—Carlos Molina got kicked outta the game for yellin’ at the ump! Ha! That’s exactly what my mom says’ll happen to me if I keep yellin’ at teachers.
Anyway, now the series is tied, two games apiece. Next game’s in Los Angeles, and if it’s anything like this one, the fire department better be ready, ‘cause those bats are smokin’!

[jg2977]

So here we are, Tuesday night, Ball Arena, National Hockey League—except instead o’ skatin’ on ice, dese guys are hittin’ dingers like it’s Wrigley Field in da middle o’ July. And lemme tell ya, dis time, da Blackhawks romp.
First off—you got Klompus. Dis guy. Back-to-back nights, he hits for da cycle. Dat’s right—two days in a row. Single, double, triple, homer… bada bing, bada boom, order a Polish with extra kraut. Only thing missin’ was Ditka himself joggin’ out to third base to give him a handshake.
But it wasn’t just Klompus. Ron freakin’ Hextall—da goalie from da Flyers, yeah dat guy—apparently now he’s da shortstop? He smacks two bombs, seven RBIs, five hits. If dis keeps up, we’re gonna hafta retire his jersey at Soldier Field, never mind da United Center.
Bedard? Grand slam in da first. Boom. Three more later. Hextall, Sanchez, Trevino, even da guy sellin’ peanuts probably had a couple o’ ribbies. By da end o’ it, da scoreboard looked like da counter at Superdawg after a Bears-Packers game: thirty to eighteen.
Colorado? Eh, they tried. Jorge Sanchez hit four taters, Nate MacKinnon had some hits, but c’mon—when da other guys put up thirty runs, you pack it in, order an Italian beef, and go home.
So now, da series is 3-1 Hawks. Game 5 back in Chicago. At dis point, da only thing standin’ between da Hawks and da Conference Finals is altitude sickness from playin’ in Denver, and maybe Ditka eatin’ too many Polish sausages before first pitch.
Final thought: Klompus for Mayor. Ditka for Governor. And da Hawks? Dey’re marchin’ on.
Prediction: Hawks in five. Score: Hawks 87, Avalanche negative 3.

[jg2977]

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[jg2977]

🎲 Clark Griswold voice, Vegas Vacation style:
“Well folks, how about that! Montreal was down three games to none, the bags were packed, the cabana reserved, the sunscreen applied… the Islanders basically went on vacation! And now? We’ve actually got ourselves a series! I mean, come on—15 to 2? That’s not just a win, that’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of humiliation served cold with a side of Jose Ruiz going full-on jackpot mode with three home runs. Ding ding ding! 🎰
The Canadiens lit up Long Island pitching like Cousin Eddie at the slot machines—pull the lever, fireworks every time. Meanwhile, the Islanders looked like they were more concerned about getting to the blackjack tables than playing baseball. Two runs on three hits? That’s not a box score, that’s a receipt from the snack bar.
So here we are, from 3-0 down to 3-2, heading back to Montreal. Game 6 is suddenly a big one, folks. If you’re Long Island, you might want to cancel those vacation plans, because Griswold family or not, the Canadiens are driving this series straight to Wally World.”