National Baseball League

[jg2977]

2002 NHL Conference Finals

Last year in the East, the New York Rangers defeated the Montreal Canadiens 4-2. In the West, it will be a rematch. Last year Chicago defeated Dallas 4-1.

[jg2977]

Ohhh BABY! You’re tellin’ me the Rangers — MY Rangers — marched into that dump on the Island, UBS Arena, Game 1 of the freakin’ Conference Finals, and lit those frauds UP? Fuhgeddaboudit! I mean — come on! Mark Grubin? Are you kiddin’ me? This guy — this guy’s got ice in his veins and a Louisville Slugger for a spine. Grand slam in the seventh? Are you SERIOUS!?

Listen, I got agita just thinking about how shaky it looked early. You’re goin’ through five innings, it’s like, "C’mon, boys, let’s go already!" But then, top of the seventh, bases loaded, tie game — boom. Grubin takes Taylor Nance, who I always said was overrated by the way, and sends one to freakin’ Ronkonkoma. And now it’s 7-3 Rangers, and the building’s quieter than a library on Yom Kippur. BEAUTIFUL.

Let me tell you something else — you want a blueprint for a clutch postseason lineup? This is it. You got Kosmo Kramer hitting bombs. You got Will Cuylle lacing doubles. Bliebernicht — this kid’s got a name like a Bond villain and he’s hittin’ lasers. And of course, you got the Grubins — plural — doin’ damage like it’s a family reunion in the Bronx. And that blast from A. Grubin in the ninth? Salt. In. The. Wound.

And don’t get me started on the Islander fans. Oh they showed up all right — 43,000 loud mouths with flags and chants and all that garbage — and they left in silence. Look, I’m not sayin’ it’s over. I’m not an idiot. But this is what you call a STATEMENT WIN, folks. You go on the road, in enemy territory, and you drop nine runs with just seven hits? That’s capital-B baseball right there.

Now — S. Gi-Hun? Gimme a freakin’ break. The guy was mowing ‘em down like Koufax out there — 13 strikeouts? That’s a video game stat. The Islanders didn’t have an answer till the sixth inning. And yeah, the bullpen got a little dicey — Diaz gives up a solo shot, Vera lets in two late — but you know what? When you put up a nine spot, you got room for a little turbulence, alright?

Also, can we talk about Taylor Nance? Seven walks. SEVEN! Also plunked two batters. I mean, how’s that guy still breathing on a mound in the Conference Finals? And that bullpen? Rios, van de Kuilen, Ramirez? That’s not a relief corps, that’s a clown car.

Anyway — bottom line — Rangers up 1-0, baby. We got Game 2 tomorrow night, same place. You steal two on the road? Now you’re talkin’ parade routes down the Canyon of Heroes.

One game at a time though. Let’s not get nuts. But this one?

OH BABY.

LET’S. GO. RANGERS.

[jg2977]

(soft jazz piano riff fades under the slow drawl…)

Wellll, good evenin’... hellooooooo to all of you out there in radioland, or perhaps here in the twilight, driving through the industrial corridors of Joliet or the lonely stretches of the Eisenhower Expressway… The Mets, the Knicks… no wait, the Blackhawks — yes, the Chicago Blackhawks, and yes, hockey is still being played in October — have done the unthinkable.

Now, for those of you just tuning in from another galaxy or perhaps leaving a matinee in Oak Lawn, let me recap what was — and I say was with a long, lingering sigh — a 6-0 Dallas lead. Yes, six to nothing. That’s not a typo. Not a numerical error. Not a mirage in the dusty windows of Union Station. That was the score… and then came the ghosts.

Connor Bedard — whose name, by the way, sounds like the kid you ask to water your plants when you’re on vacation — turned into a postseason poltergeist. A specter. A phantom in red and black. Three hits. A home run. Two triples. Four RBIs. Three runs scored. He floated around the bases like fog through the Loop on a November morning. And somewhere, Stan Mikita must’ve been smiling from the clouds.

Nick Foligno? Welllll… two home runs. Four RBIs. And he did it with a swing that looked like it came out of a sandlot in Cicero.

Now… I was just sipping a tepid decaf, thinking about that 5-run third inning by Dallas — the Stars piling it on, looking every bit the team from the state that gave us oil, barbecue, and political discomfort — and I had all but mailed in the game. But wouldn’t you know it… Chicago woke up. In the fourth, a little tap here, a poke there, a tremble through the crowd… and then that seventh inning, the ghost inning, the inning that never ends.

Foligno, again, with the exclamation point off Cespedes — not the outfielder, no — and suddenly it’s 8-7. Eight to seven, ladies and gentlemen. Like a slow boil that becomes a tempest, a forgotten pot on a stovetop rattling itself into legend.

And yes… yes, the bullpen… the Borsellinos and Riveras of the world held on, barely, like a zipper on an old winter coat. They got it done. They bent but didn’t break. They gave the home fans what they wanted.

To those of you stuck in traffic… waiting at O’Hare… wondering if it’s still possible to feel joy in October… this was a game for you.

Final score again: Blackhawks 8, Stars 7. A comeback, a resurrection… a sermon on skates.

I’m Steve Somers, and as always…

(soft jazz riff returns…)

… I’ll see you… on the other side of the glass.

[jg2977]

Okay… okay… okay okay okay okay okay… so, listen to this... this is important: THE RANGERS SCORED SIX RUNS IN THE FIRST INNING! SIX! That’s… that’s a lot. That’s too many! That’s like... one run for each of my fears! Death, drowning, elevators, elevators that stop between floors, elevators that never open again, and... public humiliation!

BUT THEN... THEN...

The Islanders—the Islanders!—they came back. They came back from the grave like Jason Voorhees, only... but, on skates! And they scored seven runs in the fourth inning, which is... I mean, come on! SEVEN. SEV-EN! That's one more than six! And then it got worse. It got so much worse, because the Rangers just… kept giving up runs. Like trick-or-treaters giving away candy instead of asking for it.

I was doing deep breathing. Baby steps to the remote control. Baby steps to the snack bowl. Baby steps to sanity. AND THEN VINNY HIXSON—ohhhh Vinny—he hits TWO HOME RUNS. Two! That’s one... plus another one! And he went 4-for-5! That’s four hits! That’s like... that’s like going to the grocery store and accidentally buying four gallons of anxiety.

The Rangers, my poor Rangers, they tried—oh, how they tried! Mark Grubin with a triple, a double, they hit homers, they stole bases, they scored TWO runs in the SEVENTH and TWO MORE in the EIGHTH and I thought... I thought... “Maybe they’ll win! Maybe they’ll pull this one off and I can stop hyperventilating into this paper bag.” But... nooooooo.

Because Max Torres happened. And Bauer. And Sijtsma. And a home run here, a double there, and OH MY GOD the bullpen was like a broken umbrella in a hurricane—useless, flapping, sad, and wet!

Twelve to THIRTEEN. We lost. One run. ONE!

BUT… it’s okay. It’s okay. I'm taking baby steps to Game 3. Baby steps back to Madison Square Garden. Baby steps to confidence. Baby steps to believing this team still has a shot. Baby steps to... to... to maybe not sobbing into a Ziploc bag labeled “EMOTIONAL EMERGENCIES ONLY.”

I’m Bob Wiley, and I’m not going to panic... I’m not going to panic... I’m PANICKING!

[jg2977]

CHICAGO — SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH, 2002.

Now listen closely, because what you are about to hear is not just a box score, not merely a statistical summary—it is, in fact, a case study in mental toughness, resilience under pressure, and the triumphant assertion of the human will in the face of competitive adversity.

The Dallas Stars, leading by as many as three runs midway through the fifth inning, were positioned to equalize the series in this best-of-seven psychological chess match known colloquially as “Conference Finals Game 2.” And yet, as a clinical observer, I must say: they faltered.

Why?

Because the Chicago Blackhawks—led by none other than right fielder Nick Foligno—exhibited what I would describe as... textbook emotional intelligence, a heightened sense of situational awareness, and an almost Freudian need to dominate their opponent in the latter half of the game.

Foligno—Buffalo-born, presumably well-raised—went 2-for-4 with two devastating home runs. These were not casual, recreational dingers. No. These were therapeutic—a form of applied behavioral correction for the Dallas bullpen, who appeared utterly unprepared for what was, essentially, a live-fire demonstration of focused aggression.

Six RBI. Two runs scored. A masterclass in self-actualization, if you will.

Now, the sixth inning. Picture it: Chicago trailing 6-5. The emotional momentum—shifting. The ballpark—buzzing with a low, anticipatory hum. And then: Foligno. A three-run homer. The crowd: cathartic. A breakthrough moment. One could say—metaphorically—it was the moment Nick Foligno moved from the id to the ego, establishing control not only over the ballgame, but over the collective psyche of both teams.

And that, my friends, is what I like to call... a breakthrough.

As for the Dallas Stars—decent first half, clinical signs of early competence—but in the face of mounting pressure, their bullpen collapsed like an unsupervised group therapy session. Ramirez? Zero innings, four runs. Cespedes? Didn’t record an out. If I were analyzing their performance using my own multi-dimensional scale of emotional stability, they’d be somewhere between “mild denial” and “abject surrender.”

Meanwhile, Chicago’s bullpen—Rivera in particular—delivered a calm, controlled two-inning save. A model of consistency. A poster child for my upcoming seminar: “Winning Under Duress: Maintaining Focus in the Final Frames.”

Let me be perfectly clear: this is no longer merely a hockey series. This is a battle of mental architectures. And right now, the blueprint with the best design belongs to Chicago.

Game 3 moves to Dallas, but if the Stars hope to rebound, they’ll need more than runs. They’ll need... therapy.

I’m Dr. Leo Marvin. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your diagnosis.

[jg2977]

MADISON SQUARE GARDEN – SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6TH, 2002
Cowabunga! The Rangers go full pizza power in Game 3!

Yo dudes and dudettes, welcome to the most bodacious beatdown in Conference Finals history! The New York Rangers shell-shocked the Long Island Islanders in Game 3 with a radical 16-4 victory—and leading the charge was none other than the OG ninja himself... AVERY GRUBIN!

That’s right, bros—this 39-year-old right fielder went full-on Leonardo meets Babe Ruth! Three home runs! Seven RBIs! Four runs scored! I mean, if Grubin was any more tubular, he’d be surfing a slice of pepperoni into the dugout. Talk about a cowabunga comeback!

First Inning:
The Islanders brought some early noise—Bauer and Bernabel both go deep!—but that was all the shouting they’d do. After that? Crickets, man. Or should we say… shredded dreams.

Third Inning:
Grubin steps up with the bases loaded, does a little cleanup—even if it was just a groundout RBI. The Rangers take the lead 3-2 and never look back, dudes!

Mid-Inning Shellshock:
BOOM! Fourth inning—Rice goes deep!
KAPOW! Escandon hits one out!
WHACK! Fifth inning—Grubin starts his homer hat trick!
ZAP! Sattler smashes another!

The Rangers were ninja-slicing the ball all over the field while the Islanders were flopping around like foot soldiers in a sewer.

Seventh Inning:
Avery “Katana-Swing” Grubin steps to the plate with the bases juiced, and BAM! GRAND SLAM, bros!! That's the kind of shell-smashing you'd expect from Raphael after someone touches his sai.

On the Mound:
Macias held it down like Splinter teaching a lesson in balance and discipline—8 innings, 6 hits, 4 runs, 4 Ks. And Crispin cleaned it up like a ninja with a mop.

Meanwhile, the Islanders’ pitchers? Man, they looked like they’d never held a baseball before. Benavides gave up 5 runs in two-thirds of an inning—talk about losing your footing in the dojo.

The Final Slice:
Rangers 16, Islanders 4.
New York leads the series 2-1.
Avery Grubin? MVPizza status.

What’s Next?
Game 4 is tomorrow, same place, same ninja time. If the Rangers keep swinging like this, the Islanders better call in Krang and Shredder—‘cause they’re gonna need backup.

Until then—stay radical, sports fans! And remember...

Never pay full price for late pizza.

– Michelangelo (probably) 🐢🥋🍕

[jg2977]

"JABIRI... THAT’S THE NAME YOU'RE GONNA REMEMBER."
Chicago Blackhawks Collapse in Classic Lloyd Braun Fashion

You know... I told them this might happen. I told them. You can’t keep giving Amenzu Jabiri fastballs and expect to walk out of Dallas with a win. But did they listen? Of course not. And now? Now you’ve got a grand slam ringing in your ears like a car alarm at three in the morning.

Bottom of the Ninth. Two Outs.
Down three runs. Charles Krueger—six-time All-Star, supposedly unflappable—gets on the mound. And Jabiri? Jabiri steps in like he’s been doing this since T-ball. And boom. Grand slam. Left field. Good night. Drive home safely.

That’s not just clutch, that’s Lloyd Braun-approved clutch.

Now, now, I know what you’re thinking. “Lloyd, you’re just here to sell us serenity now.” No. I’m here to tell you that if you’re a Blackhawks fan, you don’t need a stress management cassette—you need a bullpen.

Let’s Look at the Numbers.
Chicago had 10 hits. Twelve walks. TWELVE! Foligno walked five times! That’s more walks than you get on a Sunday in Central Park! And what did they do with it? They lost. Because no matter how many times you circle the bases, you still have to stop Jabiri.

He went 3-for-5. Home run. Triple. Double. Five RBIs. That's not a game, that’s a resumé.

Oh, and the Pitching?
F. Bautista? Fine. Solid. Seven innings, four runs, five Ks—respectable.
But then you get to Krueger. The guy melts faster than frozen yogurt in August. Gives up four runs in less than an inning. This man’s ERA is starting to look like a zip code.

On the other side? Dallas didn’t exactly paint a masterpiece either. Chan-koo Kim walked eight batters! Eight! That’s not pitching, that’s a parade! But somehow... somehow... they pull it off. Because Jabiri refused to let Dallas lose.

A Word on Jabiri.
He’s got that... that Lloyd Braun energy. You know? Big game, bright lights, everything on the line—and he delivers. Doesn’t sweat it. Doesn’t flinch. Just hits baseballs like they owe him money.

Final Score: Stars 9, Blackhawks 8.
Series now 2-1, Chicago.

Next Game: Tomorrow, American Airlines Center.
Let’s hope the Blackhawks remember this isn’t a hot tub retreat. This is the playoffs. You don’t get to collapse in the ninth and expect to call that effort. That’s not effort. That’s... that’s a mistake. And you know what I say about mistakes?

“Lloyd Braun doesn’t make mistakes.”

But the Blackhawks?
Well... they made one tonight.

Actually, they made several.

[jg2977]

“YOU MAKE BIG MISTAKE, ISLANDERS! BIG MISTAKE!!”
— A Babu Bhatt Exclusive Post-Game Report

Ohhhh my goodness… what a terrible, terrible game for the Long Island Islanders. I mean, so close! So very close! But in the end? No! No, Islanders! You are bad, very bad team!

You hit three home runs with Jack Bauer? Yes! Very nice! He was magnificent! Five hits, four runs, four RBIs… three home runs! Jack Bauer was like the butter chicken of baseball—absolutely delicious! But the rest of the team? Not spicy. Bland! Like unsalted lentils.

And don’t get me started on the pitching… oh ho ho, Stigter! You pitched one inning? You gave up five runs?? Kya baat hai, yaar?! That ERA… twenty-four point five five?! You are trying to destroy your own team, I think!

Meanwhile… the Rangers! Ah yes, Rangers. They were... how you say... "clever like mongoose." Very clever. They hit and hit and hit. Grubin? Cuylle? Bliebernicht? All good. Cuylle hits the game-winning home run in the ninth inning?! Yes, yes! THAT is a good team!

"Very smart, Mr. Cuylle! Very smart indeed!"

And let us talk about Jose Jacomino. You are nine-time All-Star, huh? NINE! And you give up a walk-off homer to lose the game? No. That is not All-Star. That is All-Sorrow. You should be ashamed!

You know what this game was? This game was the Islander Café all over again.
I try to run a nice place. I put up the Pakistani flags. The American flags. I serve the very best tea. And what do they do? They don’t come. They don’t support me.
Just like this team does not support Jack Bauer!

“YOU’RE A VERY BAD TEAM, ISLANDERS! VERY BAD!”

Final score:
Rangers 10
Islanders 9

Series? Now 3-1 in favor of the Rangers.

Can the Islanders come back?
Ha! Maybe if Jack Bauer clones himself! Otherwise? No! Game over! Rangers win! You’ll see!

I try to warn them. I try to help. But do they listen to Babu?

“Nooooo, never listen to Babu…”

[jg2977]

JACK BAUER POST-GAME REPORT – 2100 HOURS
OPERATION: RANGERS 10, ISLANDERS 9

My name is Jack Bauer. I’m a baseball player. And today… I did everything I could. But it wasn’t enough.

START OF BRIEFING – 2000 HOURS, MADISON SQUARE GARDEN
The mission was simple: hit the ball, score the runs, win the game. But as always, nothing ever goes according to plan.

The New York Rangers were waiting. Armed with a deep bullpen, a loud crowd, and a desperation to survive. I had intel that they’d be pitching around me, but they didn’t. That was their mistake.

TARGETS NEUTRALIZED:

1st Inning – 1 on 1: Fastball. Center cut. Homerun.
2nd Inning – 2 on 1: Same guy, Guillermo Contreras. I read his release like a classified dossier. Two-run blast.
4th Inning – Single: They tried to jam me. I made contact. No hesitation.
6th Inning – Solo HR off Cavazos: New arm, same result. Boom.
8th Inning – Double: They still hadn’t learned. They should’ve walked me.
Five at-bats. Five hits. Complete offensive lockdown.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when our pitching collapsed in the 9th. Not when Cuylle launched a walk-off into the night and the Rangers celebrated like they’d defused a bomb.

POST-MISSION STATEMENT:

“I did what I had to do,” I told reporters. “But we lost a man. We lost this game. You don’t just walk away from that.”
SEASON BODY COUNT:

Batting Avg: .463
Home Runs: 111
RBIs: 208
Runs Scored: 266
On-Base Percentage: .512
You don’t put up those numbers by accident. You put them up when you live in the shadows, study the enemy, and strike fast.

ENEMY ASSESSMENT – MANUEL SANTIAGO (Rangers Manager):

“We tried to take him out, but Bauer hit us hard. Really hard.”
Yes, I did. Because you left me no choice.
NEXT STEPS:
The series isn’t over. We're down 3-1. One loss from elimination. But I’ve been here before. I’ve defused nukes, dismantled sleeper cells, and yes… I’ve come back from worse.

You think Jack Bauer is finished?

Then you haven’t been paying attention.

[jg2977]

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT – STARS 6, BLACKHAWKS 4
Game 4, Conference Finals. Grubin goes boom. And Puddy? Puddy likes it. After this, it feels like an Arby's night.

Chicago came into Dallas thinking they were gonna take a 3-1 lead. Nope. Not today. Stars took it, 6-4. Series tied 2-2. Gonna be a long one, baby.

You see this game? This was a man’s game. Brayden Grubin? Two bombs. Not one. Two. Guy's 35 years old and still hitting dingers like it’s 1999. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You don’t get that kind of power from yoga, Jerry. That’s good ol’ Texas torque.

BOTTOM OF THE 8TH – TIED BALLGAME
Blackhawks got cocky. Shouldn’t have done that.
Here comes Grubin. Steps up, bat in hand. Charles Krueger on the mound, probably listening to Coldplay or something. And then... BOOM. Two-run shot. Crowd goes nuts. Me? I just nod. Yeah. That’s right.

AFTER THE GAME:
Grubin says, "We're happy. You’ve got to treat every game like it could be your last."
Classic playoff talk. Guy sounds like he’s in a cologne commercial. I like that.

OTHER STUFF THAT HAPPENED:

Foligno hit a homer for Chicago. Cool name. Guy sounds like a pasta.
A. Jabiri? Still good. Still dangerous. Should probably be in a Marvel movie.
Krueger? Blew it. Again. Guy's got an ERA the size of a Buick.
M. Montez? Hit his first homer of the playoffs. Took him long enough.
Dallas bullpen? Shut it down. Lights out, baby. That’s the way.
FIELDING? No errors. Clean game. Like a freshly waxed car.
Wind blowing out to right at 12 mph. That’s home run weather. Puddy knows.
Attendance? 41,997. That’s a lotta foam fingers.

FINAL THOUGHT:
You win Game 4, you get the momentum. You get the momentum, you get the swagger.
And when you got the swagger…

You paint your face.
You fire up the tunes.
You get ready for Game 5.

Let’s do this.
Puddy out.
�� High five.

[jg2977]

New York Rangers: 14th Stanley Cup Finals berth
1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1994 1995 1998 2000 2001 2002

Krueger Here. Rangers Win. Islanders Lose. Again.
October 9th, 2002 – UBS Arena, Long Island
You wanted it neat? You got it.

So. Rangers beat the Islanders. 6-2. Series over. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. I don’t know what you want from me—ballgame’s over, folks. Go home.

Rangers advance to the Stanley Cup Finals for the third year in a row. That’s a dynasty, Jerry. You get to three Cups, that’s serious business. Over at Kruger Industrial Smoothing, we once landed three accounts in one week. They gave me a plaque. I lost it. Doesn’t matter.

Let’s Talk About Grubin. Avery Grubin.
This guy... this guy’s a machine. Named series MVP. Hit over .400. Six home runs. Nine runs scored. He’s basically the only guy on the team who can read a scouting report and follow it.

You know what he said after the game? “Nothing is ever easy in the National Hockey League playoffs.” Yeah, no kidding. I once tried to switch health insurance plans. Took me six months and a bleeding ulcer.

The Game? Fine. Let's Break It Down.

Rangers scored in six different innings. That’s called consistency. Or attention to detail. Something we could’ve used in accounting.
Seong Gi-Hun? Seven innings, 14 strikeouts. That’s a lot of strikeouts. I haven’t seen that kind of domination since Elaine tried to return a coat to Barneys without a receipt.
T. Vera? Two clean innings to close it out. Didn’t mess it up. That’s all you can ask from the bullpen. Or from any assistant I’ve ever had.
Islanders? Yeah. Not so good. Four hits. Two runs. Both in the seventh inning. I’ve seen better offense at a Kruger holiday party, and we serve dry shrimp and warm Sprite.
Islanders Highlight?
Uh... Mike Bossy hit a triple. That was weird. Clark had a double. That was it. No homers. No fight. Just sad little hacks at the ball while Grubin jogged around the bases.

Errors? Yep. Bossy and Sijtsma.
You make errors in Game 5 of the Conference Finals? That’s not playoff hockey. That’s how you end up in the minors. Or worse—Buffalo.

So, What’s Next?
Rangers wait to see if they get Dallas or Chicago. Either way, they’re ready. They’ve lost the Cup two years in a row. You don’t do that three times. You just don’t. Unless you’re Kruger Industrial Smoothing and you’re bidding on that Staten Island seawall contract. We still don’t talk about that.

Player of the Game: Seong Gi-Hun.
Because 14 strikeouts isn’t just good. It’s Kruger Good.

Final Note:
Attendance was 43,394. They showed up. Islanders didn’t.
Oops, locked myself out of my office again.
That’s it.
Guess I'm going home early.

Krueger out.

[jg2977]

.

[jg2977]

DALLAS STARS AT CHICAGO BLACKHAWKS — OCTOBER 10, 2002
Written in the style of Bubbles from Trailer Park Boys

Holy frigg boys, this one was a friggin’ barn burner right here, I tell ya! The Dallas Stars rolled into the United Center with their hockey bags packed with dynamite and kaboom, they blew the friggin’ doors off the Blackhawks in Game 5, 11 to friggin’ 5! That’s more goals—I mean runs, sorry, I keep forgettin’ this ain’t hockey—than I’ve got cats.

So Amenzu Jabiri, right? The dude’s friggin’ on fire, boys. I mean, this fella went 3-for-3, had a triple and a dinger, scored 3 times, walked twice, didn’t even strike out. That’s like playing the perfect game if you ask me. And get this—he’s batting friggin’ .489 in the playoffs. That’s not human, that’s like cyborg levels of awesome. He’s got 10 home runs now! TEN, boys! That’s more than Julian drinks a week! Well... maybe not more, but close.

The game was tighter than Lahey’s liquor stash until the 7th inning, right? Then Edgar “Don’t Call Me Eduardo” Casteneda put the ball in play and the Blackhawks made a big ol’ error, frigged it right up, and Dallas snuck in a run. After that it was like the floodgates opened and Dallas just kept pummelin’ ‘em, like Ricky on a vending machine that eats his loonie.

And holy frigg, Georgie Costanza—no relation to the fella from Seinfeld, I don’t think—but he went off too. 3-for-4, 2 RBI, a double, a homer... that’s Grade A baseballin’ right there. R. Grubin had 2 hits too, even though he struck out three times... which is friggin’ impressive in a weird way, kinda like when Julian drives with one hand and still holds his drink.

But the real story here, boys, was the Stars’ bats. I mean, they spanked that Chicago pitching staff like they stole somethin’. V. Sanchez gave up back-to-back bombs in the 8th—one to Montez and then right after to Jabiri. Like pow! pow! Right in the kisser! That poor guy probably wishes he was back in AAA right about now.

Kunisada got the win for Dallas, finally pitched decent—went over 7 innings, gave up 3 runs, struck out 7. Not bad for a guy who’s been kinda all over the place. I mean, his ERA still looks like the price of a medium pizza, but tonight? He held it down.

Chicago did have a few nice swings—Bedard had 3 hits, Foligno smoked one into the seats, even ol’ R. Sanchez and Hextall went deep in the 9th—but by then it was too late. Like trying to plug a leaky roof with duct tape, boys... it just wasn’t enough.

Now Dallas leads the series 3-2, and the next game’s back in Big D. Saturday night. American Airlines Center. It’s gonna be friggin’ wild, boys. If Jabiri keeps playing like friggin’ Babe Ruth with wheels, the Blackhawks might be packing their bags and heading home cryin’ to their moms.

Alright, I’m gonna go feed my kitties and try to calm down. My heart’s beatin’ like a jackhammer right now. Friggin’ great ball game.

Player of the Game: Amenzu "Friggin’ Beast Mode" Jabiri
Attendance: 41,950 crazy friggin’ fans
Weather: Cold enough to shrink yer nips off — 47°F, wind blowin’ in
Time: 3 hours and 34 friggin’ minutes of madness

Peace out, boys.

[jg2977]

CHICAGO BLACKHAWKS AT DALLAS STARS — OCTOBER 12, 2002
Written in the style of Julian from Trailer Park Boys

Alright, let’s break this down like professionals.

Chicago came into Dallas with their backs against the wall—Game 6, elimination night—and they came out swingin’ like Ricky in a bottle depot scrap. Final score: 12-7, Blackhawks. That means we’re headed to Game 7, boys. One game. All the chips on the table. No do-overs.

Let’s start with Connor Bedard. Guy’s an absolute weapon. If I had a crew like him back when we were running jobs, we’d never have got caught. Bedard went 3-for-4 with a bomb, a double, and four ribbies. Also swiped a bag. He’s hittin’ over .500 in the series, and I’m not talking about coin toss odds—this guy’s seeing the ball like it owes him money.

First inning? Boom. Bedard jacks one with a man on. Two batters later, Hyun-woo Kim unloads a three-run nuke—one of those moonshots you don’t even chase. That’s a five-spot before the Stars even had time to get their whiskey warm.

Now listen, the Stars didn’t just lie down. B. Grubin put up two homers and drove in three—kid’s got wheels and a bat, dangerous combo. His brother R. Grubin slapped out four hits too. The Stars actually clawed back to make it interesting in the 8th. Three runs, narrowed it to 9-7. I had to put my drink down for a second. That’s how serious it got.

But then Chicago said, “No more screwin’ around.” Foligno tripled, Diaz doubled, and Bedard drove in another. Three more runs, game over. Final: 12-7. Clean, calculated, professional win.

Now, the pitching... yeah, let’s talk about that mess.
Dallas started C. Kim, and it went sideways fast—0.2 innings, 5 earned runs, 2 homers. That ERA? Looks like a busted safe combination.
They went through five pitchers, trying to plug holes like Lahey fixing leaks with duct tape. Didn’t work.

Chicago’s bullpen? Not amazing, but V. Sanchez came in and settled things down—two innings, no runs. That’s what you want: a guy who doesn’t panic when the fire starts.

No errors on either side, which is rare in a game with this much chaos. Just pure, old-school offense. 21 runs, 20 hits, 5 homers—that’s the kind of night where your scorekeeper needs a drink and a nap.

Player of the Game:
Connor Bedard — MVP-type performance, and if he shows up like that in Game 7, Dallas better hope for divine intervention.

Game 7 Info:
Monday night, United Center, Chicago. This is it, boys. Winner goes to the Cup Final. Loser hits the golf course.

Julian’s Final Word:
If you’re Dallas, you better sober up and tighten your operation. Chicago’s rolling, Bedard’s a machine, and your bullpen looks like it’s been held together with duct tape and bad decisions. You want to win Game 7? Keep the ball in the yard and stop giving Bedard anything he can drive.

And for God’s sake, somebody get B. Grubin some help out there.

Stay calm, keep your drink steady, and handle your business.

[jg2977]

Dallas Stars: 9th Stanley Cup Finals berth
1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1997 1998 2000 2002

DALLAS STARS AT CHICAGO BLACKHAWKS — OCTOBER 14, 2002

Written in the style of Ricky from Trailer Park Boys

Alright boys, lemme tell ya what the frigg just happened ‘cause this was one of the craziest hockey–I mean baseball–games I’ve seen in my life. Stars and Blackhawks, Game frickin’ 7. Winner goes to the Stanley Cup Finals or whatever they call it in baseball... but it’s still called hockey for me, so I’m callin’ it that.

Dallas wins the goddamn thing, 12 to 7. BOOM.

I mean holy frick, boys, the Stars came out swingin’ harder than I did at the guy who stole my smokes that one time behind the bowling alley. They scored 5 runs in the first inning! FIRST FRIGGIN’ INNING! Chicago starts some jabroni named Bautista, and Dallas just lit him up like a grow-op on Christmas Eve. Guy pitched less than a whole inning and gave up 5 runs and 2 frickin’ homers. What a mess.

And Brayden Friggin’ Grubin, man... this guy's playin’ like he’s got frickin’ superpowers or somethin’. Two more homers tonight, drove in 3, went 3-for-5. I mean, they gave him MVP for the series and that’s a no-brainer. He hit .407, launched 8 bombs, and scored 12 times. That’s not baseball. That’s like some cheat-code video game bullcrap, boys.

Also gotta give props to his brother R. Grubin—3 more hits, scored twice, stole a base. Dude’s fast as frick. Probably coulda outrun Randy after eatin’ a dozen cheeseburgers. And Jabiri and Costanza both launched one too. Costanza’s hittin’ .400-something like it’s easy. It’s not easy! I tried tee-ball once, got smoked in the nuts.

And Chicago, they didn’t totally sh*t the bed. I mean Bedard tried to save their arses—3 hits, a homer, 2 RBIs. Dude’s been tearin’ it up all playoffs. I’d put him on my team any day. Foligno and Read each had bombs too, but their pitching was worse than Lahey on a Sunday bender. Total garbage.

They went through four pitchers, gave up six homers. SIX. That’s not how you win Game 7s, boys, that’s how you end up in the offseason early, sittin’ at home eatin’ pizza rolls watchin’ reruns of Knight Rider.

So now the Stars move on to face the New York Rangers in the Finals. It’s a rematch of a couple years ago when Dallas beat ‘em, and I hope they do it again. I like their style. Just go out, smoke a bunch of bombs, try not to frick up too much. Real greasy hockey—er, baseball.

Final Thoughts from Ricky:
Player of the Game: Brayden "Frig Off I’m a Machine" Grubin
Game Length: 3 hours and 55 frickin’ minutes. That’s longer than most of my court appearances.
Attendance: 41,527 people got their frickin’ money’s worth.
Next Stop: Stanley Friggin’ Cup... wait, I mean World Series or whatever. Doesn’t matter. Dallas is movin’ on and that’s what counts.
Alright boys, I gotta roll up a celebratory joint and maybe throw a party in the shed. Stars are goin’ to the dance, and I’m not missin’ it.

Let’s go Stars, frick yeah!

[jg2977]

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[jg2977]

2002 Stanley Cup Finals

MIKE FRANCESA STYLE BREAKDOWN: RANGERS VS STARS — THE STANLEY CUP FINALS HISTORY & OUTLOOK

Alright listen, folks. We’ve been here before, okay? The New York Rangers and the Dallas Stars—two teams with a little history, a little bad blood, and a whole lotta hardware between them. This ain’t new. This isn’t some Cinderella story. This is two legit contenders going head-to-head again in the Stanley Cup Finals. Now let me walk you through it.

The history? Oh, it’s deep. It’s real deep.
This’ll be the seventh time these two teams have met in the Stanley Cup Final. That’s not nothin’. This is Ali-Frazier, alright? This is Yankees-Red Sox, Lakers-Celtics. We’ve seen it over decades. Here's the rundown:

1989: Rangers in 6
1990: Stars sweep, 4-0 — total domination, not even close.
1991: Rangers in 6
1992: Rangers in 5 — short work, no drama.
1998: Rangers in 6
2000: Stars in 7 — great series, went the distance.
So let’s just state the obvious: Rangers have won 4 of the 6 matchups, and they’ve done it convincingly. When the Rangers win, they don’t fool around. They take control.

Now listen, I know the Stars are good. I’m not saying they’re not. You got guys like Brayden Grubin tearing the cover off the puck, Jabiri’s no slouch, and that lineup top to bottom—it’s scrappy. But let’s be honest here: Dallas struggles when the Rangers push the pace. Always have.

This year? It’s gonna be no different.

The Rangers’ offense is relentless. I’m talking four lines that can all score, move the puck, wear you down, and bury you by the third period. You can’t key in on one guy. There’s no weak spot. They come at you in waves. The forecheck is heavy. The power play is elite. And defensively? They’re not flashy, but they’re effective. They clog the neutral zone. They make you earn everything.

The Stars? I’ll say this—if they’re gonna win this thing, it’s gonna have to be because their goaltending stands on its head. That’s it. They need their goalie to steal a couple games. Because they’re not gonna outscore the Rangers in a 7-game series. Not this year. Not with this Rangers team.

I’ve seen enough hockey over the years to know when a team has “it.” And folks, the Rangers have it.

Final Word:
I’m banking on the Rangers. I said it last week, I’m sayin’ it again. Too much depth. Too much firepower. Too much pedigree.

Prediction: Rangers in 6.
Book it.

And if I'm wrong? I’ll come on here and I’ll say I’m wrong. But I won’t be.

[jg2977]

..

[jg2977]

Terence Fletcher Game Recap: Rangers 16, Stars 8 — Or, “Are You Rushing or Are You Dragging?”

Listen to me carefully, because I’m only going to say this once.

If the Dallas Stars thought this was going to be an evenly matched Stanley Cup Final, if they thought they were prepared to step onto the same sheet of ice—or God forbid, the same stage—as the New York Rangers, they were tragically, laughably mistaken. This wasn’t a hockey game, this was a masterclass in domination. The Rangers didn’t just win. They dissected. They deconstructed. They obliterated.

And the conductor of this violent, glorious symphony?

Avery Grubin.

Three home runs. Six RBIs. Three runs scored. And he did it with all the subtlety of a hammer through a grand piano. You don’t do what he did unless you’ve bled for it. Unless you’ve screamed into a mirror and destroyed every muscle fiber chasing perfection. That wasn’t luck. That was precision. That was tempo. That was not f***ing around.

The Stars? They brought a kazoo to a Rachmaninoff recital. N. Kunisada gave up four home runs before he could finish tuning. Korevaar? Six earned runs in two-thirds of an inning. I’ve seen more control from a first-year percussionist in a middle school jazz band. Ramirez? A meatball chef. Served one right up to Avery Grubin in the 8th and watched it get sent to the Hudson River.

You want to talk about stats? Fine.

The Rangers scored in six of eight innings. They hit six home runs. They drew seven walks. They struck out four times. That’s control. That’s timing. That’s power.

And defensively? No errors. No missteps. No distractions. No off notes. Clean sheet music. Everyone in time. Even Gi-Hun, who gave up five earned, still struck out thirteen. That’s what happens when you push yourself to the brink.

Let me tell you something about the Stars: they had their moments. Jabiri? Two bombs. R. Grubin? Three hits, solo shot. Casteneda? A three-run blast to make things interesting—for a second. But then the Rangers turned the tempo up, and Dallas fell apart like a freshman who didn’t practice.

This was just Game 1. And it would have been even more of a blowout if not for the Stars robbing four Rangers home runs.

But if you're Dallas, you're already sweating. You’ve seen what's coming. You’re not ready. You thought you were. But you’re not. And unless you find a Fletcher of your own in the locker room—someone to scream in your face, someone to make you earn it—they’re going to sweep you off the stage and leave you in a heap.

So, I’ll ask the question:

Were you rushing? Or were you dragging?

Either way, the Rangers were in tempo. And you were not.

Game 2 tomorrow. Practice your scales.

[jg2977]

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