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October 17, 2002 – Stanley Cup Finals, Game 2
Written by Andrew Neiman (yes, that Andrew Neiman)
Twenty-two runs.
Twenty-two perfectly timed strikes on a drum that used to be Dallas. If Fletcher were here, he wouldn’t scream. He’d smile. Because this—this—was tempo. Control. Discipline. And rage. All of it, unleashed from the Rangers in the most brutal, methodical way I’ve ever seen.
Look, I’ve bled on cymbals trying to prove I was good enough. But what New York did tonight? That wasn’t trying. That wasn’t hoping. That was proving.
Barton Sattler didn’t just have a good game. He played like someone who was told he’d never make first chair. Two home runs. Four hits. Six RBIs. He was possessed. Like he had something to prove to someone who doubted him long ago. And he was loud. Every crack of the bat echoed like a snare being torn open.
But it wasn’t just Sattler.
Itsuro Bliebernicht hit a 3-run homer in the first. His hands? Calm. Eyes? Deadlocked. He went 3-for-5 with four RBIs and four runs scored. His swing wasn’t showy. It was precise. The kind of swing you only get after you’ve been told you’re never going to be great. The kind that comes from proving them wrong over, and over again.
And then there was Mark Grubin, stepping in with 3 hits and 3 RBIs like it was a warm-up session. Kramer, Cuylle, Escandon, even Rice—they were all locked in. Like they were hearing a click track the Stars didn’t even know was playing.
Dallas?
Dallas was off the beat. Again. Just like yesterday. They had a spurt—four runs in the 3rd, three more in the 4th. R. Grubin hit two solo shots. Jabiri added one of his own. But it wasn’t conviction. It wasn’t discipline. It was noise. It was rushing. You don’t win when you rush. You just break down.
And then came the fifth. And the eighth. New York didn’t just answer. They erased. Ten runs between those two frames. They could have stopped. But they didn’t. Because the best don’t stop. The best keep pushing. Until the blood runs. Until the sticks splinter. Until the crowd doesn’t know whether to cheer or cry.
I’ve played in front of half-empty rooms. I’ve been told I’ll never be great. I’ve cracked my knuckles raw to chase down a moment like this—a moment where the music is exactly right. Where every hit lands like it’s meant to. Where the pain fades and all that’s left is performance.
Tonight, the Rangers hit that moment.
And the Stars?
They were the kid crying behind the kit while everyone else packed up.
Game 3’s in Dallas. They better find their tempo fast.
Because New York isn’t slowing down.
Not for anyone.
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