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So the Los Angeles Kings stroll into Chicago thinking they’re gonna steal Game 1. Game 1! You know, ease into the series, set the tone—do their little thing. But what happens? Nine to seven. Nine to seven! What is this, hockey or a beer league softball game?
The Chicago Blackhawks—they’re just piling on runs like it’s a buffet. You got Nick Foligno, he’s 3-for-4, hits a homer, gets on base four times, scores three runs. He’s basically living on the basepaths. You can’t get him out. It’s like trying to cancel a cable subscription—impossible!
And then Emilio Trevino—what is that? Bottom of the eighth, two-run single, just sticking the knife in. You’re the Kings and you’re thinking, “We almost had it… kinda.” No, you didn’t. You didn’t have anything.
And the Kings? Errors, runners left on base, eleven stranded. ELEVEN! You leave eleven guys out there, you might as well leave the bus running outside. You’re going home anyway.
Their pitching? A disaster. Jurado? Oh boy. Three and two-thirds, six earned runs. Six! By the time he left, it was like—why even bother? The bullpen comes in, they’re giving up runs like it’s Halloween candy.
Meanwhile, Chicago… clean defense. Zero errors. They’re just vibing. Smiling. Like they showed up at a party they weren’t even invited to and somehow got the best seats.
And the Kings still made it interesting at the end. Bases loaded in the ninth, big chance… and then—nothing. Classic. It’s like you’re about to make the big comeback, you’re feeling good, and then someone cuts you off in traffic. Boom. Night ruined.
So yeah, Chicago takes Game 1. Kings are sitting there saying, “We’ll get ’em tomorrow.” Yeah sure. You gave up nine runs. Tomorrow better come with a miracle.
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