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[NEWMAN VOICE]
Ahhh yes… the Cincinnati Reds.
A team of quiet menace. A team that waits. Biding their time… like a mailman lurking behind a hedge, waiting to pounce on a fresh delivery of Victoria's Secret catalogs.
And today… they struck. Ohhh did they strike.
Eleven runs! In enemy territory! On the sacred dirt of Busch Stadium! Ohhhh the humanity! You know who saw that coming? Not the Cardinals. And certainly not poor Randy Gesell, who left the mound today with an ERA that should be posted on a billboard. Nineteen point six four! NINETEEN! It’s not an ERA, it’s a zip code!
Now let’s talk about the hero of the hour. One Ricardo Ruiz. Two hits. A double. Three runs scored. Two RBIs. He was everywhere. He was like that one fly in your apartment—you swat and swat but he just won’t leave! And when it mattered most? Two outs in the fourth? Ruiz delivered a hit so pure, so sharp… it could slice through Jambalaya like a chainsaw!
And the Cardinals? Ohhhh the Cardinals. They tried, Newman concedes that. Fifteen hits. They peppered the ball like an overzealous deli man working a pastrami slicer! And still… six runs. Just six. That’s not baseball justice. That’s baseball cruelty.
Why? Errors! Sloppiness! Double plays! THREE of them! I’ve seen more coordination from a troop of Cub Scouts on a sugar crash. And don’t even get me started on Maya’s glove. Butterfingers! Absolute churned dairy disaster!
Reds pitcher Rich Alvarado? He was like a mail truck on a mission: slow, rumbling, and impossible to stop. Seven and two-thirds innings! Sure, he gave up 12 hits, but like any good federal employee, he kept on trudging along—late deliveries, lost packages, missed birthdays be damned!
And now? Now the series is tied. Game 3 looms. Winner takes all. The Cardinals will regroup, lick their wounds, maybe cry quietly into a vat of toasted ravioli. But they know… deep in their scarlet-colored souls…
Ricardo Ruiz is coming.
And Newman?
Newman will be watching.
Yesss…
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