National Baseball League

[jg2977]

Lex Luthor's Broadcast to the Masses
Transcript from LexCorp Sports & Intelligence Division, 2002 Awards Review

Ah, the fragile, fleeting concept of age. Mortals cling to it—some fear it, others revere it. But every so often, someone defies the decay, stares into the abyss of decline, and spits in its eye.

Ramon Reyes, pitcher of the Vegas Golden Knights, 35 years old—ancient by athletic standards—has done just that. Today, the baseball establishment bowed before him, bestowing upon the grizzled veteran the Western Conference Pitcher of the Year Award.

And frankly? I’m not surprised. Greatness, after all, is not the domain of youth. It’s the reward of discipline, strategy, intellect. Qualities I find... familiar.

Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?

4.01 ERA — Not flawless, no. But in an age of inflated offensive stats, it’s battle-hardened efficiency.
23 victories — A commander of the diamond.
5 defeats — Fewer than most. No margin for mediocrity.
206 strikeouts — Precision.
70 walks in 237.2 innings — Controlled fury.
The vote? Predictable.

20 first-place votes out of 36—he won, not by popularity, but by results.
186 total points, far ahead of Colorado’s Manny Martinez (10 votes, 126 points) and the ever-aggressive Dave Schultz of Minnesota (4 votes, 113 points).
The rest? Footnotes. Asai, Tsung, Fernandez... talented, yes. But Reyes is a master.
Let us not mistake sentiment for truth: Ramon Reyes isn’t here to make us feel good. He’s here because he outlasted the brash youth and outwitted the overhyped arms. He is, in essence, proof that power, when guided by calculation, is eternal.

And while others marvel at his longevity, I see something far more valuable:

Control.

You don’t need a cape to be extraordinary. You need a plan, execution... and just enough venom in your fastball.

Congratulations, Mr. Reyes. You’ve done more than win an award. You’ve reminded the world that age is irrelevant—when you’ve already outsmarted time.

[jg2977]

“He’s the One.” — Will Cuylle Wakes Up the League
A Neo-style Broadcast from the Eastern Conference Mainframe

I used to think stats were just numbers. Digits. Code. Meaningless unless you knew how to read the system.

But then I saw him.

Will Cuylle.
Age: 22.
Position: First base.
Team: New York Rangers.
Status: Most Valuable Player.

What he just did... it wasn’t baseball. It was a glitch in the system. A ripple in the code so profound the entire league paused, blinked, and asked: “Did that just happen?”

It did.

Let me show you the numbers:

.549 batting average — not just seeing the ball... becoming the ball.
.654 on-base percentage — he doesn’t reach base. He bends it toward himself.
316 hits, 65 doubles, 27 triples, 123 home runs — in 147 games.
358 RBIs. 354 runs scored.
The system wasn’t built to handle this.
He received 33 of 36 first-place votes, nearly unanimous, like the code itself voted him in. The others—Bliebernicht (3 first-place votes, 339 points), Bernabel, Couturier, Sijtsma—they’re talented, sure. But they’re still plugged in.

Cuylle? He’s something else.

"He's only going to get better," said his manager.
He's right. He’s young. Still waking up.
Still realizing what he’s capable of.
You see, Cuylle isn’t just playing the game.
He’s rewriting it.

And whether the league is ready or not...
Will Cuylle is The One.

[jg2977]

“He Is Becoming… Unstoppable.”
A Morpheus Transmission on Connor Bedard, MVP of the Western Conference

What if I told you that greatness is not bound by time, or age, or probability?

What if I told you that at only 23 years old, Connor Bedard is not merely participating in the National Hockey League…
He is reshaping it.

In the year 2002, Bedard has once again done what many thought impossible—he has claimed the Western Conference Most Valuable Player Award. This marks his third straight MVP, an achievement that is not just rare… it is revolutionary.

“To be considered amongst the best in the league is overwhelming,” he said.
No, Mr. Bedard. You are not among the best.
You are the storm that revealed the truth about what greatness truly is.
Observe the structure of his reality:

.528 batting average
.642 on-base percentage
58 doubles. 32 triples. 118 home runs.
307 RBIs. 296 runs scored.
Not numbers. Not stats.
These are signs… of a player who has awakened.
The voters recognized what their eyes could not deny:

31 first-place votes out of 36.
479 total points.
The others—Barbashev (326), Foligno (284), Kadri, Grubin, Jabiri—they remain trapped in the system. Talented, yes. But not yet free.
You see, there comes a moment in every great athlete’s journey when they stop reacting… and begin choosing.
Connor Bedard is not reacting to the league.
He is choosing to dominate it.

This is no longer coincidence. It is no longer a phase.
It is inevitability.

I have seen many players rise.
But only a few begin to believe.

And that, Mr. Bedard, is why you are not just the MVP.
You are becoming… The Legend.

[jg2977]

Agent Smith Analysis File: Subject — Roberto Dominguez
Classification: Anomaly within the System
Location: National Hockey League Hall of Fame, 2002 Induction Ceremony

Ah yes... Roberto Dominguez.
Another charming glitch in the simulation. A man—if one can call him that—who spent his career undermining the seriousness of the program with his so-called “humor” and maddening irreverence.

He pitched, yes. He won, yes.
258 victories.
3.29 ERA.
3229 strikeouts.
Numbers. Achievements. Raw output. All acceptable within the parameters of success.

But what the code cannot abide… is his attitude.

“People are too hung up on winning. I can get off on a really good helmet throw.”
Ridiculous.
Winning is the objective. It is the objective. And yet, this man—this Dominguez—treated the construct of competition as a playground, rather than a battleground.

He pitched in 643 games, over 4558.1 innings, defeating the very purpose of order and discipline with every smirk, every philosophical musing.
And now… the writers—our gatekeepers of logic—have rewarded this behavior by inducting him into the Hall of Fame.

“I played the game for fun.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t given it my all.”
Contradiction. Classic human delusion. Fun and effort cannot coexist in pure form within the architecture of performance. And yet, he believes it.
The system should reject this.
It does not.

He concluded his address with the ultimate insult:

“Baseball's a very simple game. All you have to do is sit on your butt, spit tobacco and nod at the stupid things your manager says.”
And so… it is no surprise that not one of his managers—a critical part of the hierarchy—was present.
They, like the system itself, are left to contemplate the error he represents.

You see, Dominguez is not just a Hall of Famer.
He is a virus—a persistent rejection of conformity, order, purpose.
And the crowd? They cheered.

How appropriate.

In the end, he leaves behind numbers that meet the algorithm’s threshold.
But more troubling... he leaves behind an idea.
That you can mock the system... and still win.

Mr. Dominguez, you may have fooled them.
But I know what you are.

An anomaly.
A threat.
...And now, an immortal.

[jg2977]

1880 IPA

Marston Nine: 2nd Pro Cup Title
1873 1880

Mr. Lippman’s Championship Memo — October 3, 1880
To: Pendant Publishing – Historical Sports Review Division
Subject: Marston Nine Clinch Pro Cup with Literary Precision

Well, well, well. The Marston Nine, in front of a modest but spirited crowd of 4,228 at Lowe’s Park, completed a four-game sweep of the Kenwood Wildcats with a 5-0 victory. It was clean. It was clinical. It was, dare I say… publishable.

Let’s start with the most compelling sentence in this narrative:
Ditikara Somasundara — Complete game. One hit. No walks. No earned runs. Five strikeouts.
That’s not just a pitching line, that’s a thesis statement. A masterclass in restraint and precision, clocking in at just 118 pitches—not one wasted word, not a single unnecessary semicolon. Player of the Game? Please. He’s the author of this story.

Kenwood, meanwhile, came to the plate 30 times and managed one single hit (courtesy of S. Saurin, a lone clause in a paragraph begging for action). The rest? A string of zeroes and five strikeouts, broken only by the occasional weak contact. Their offense read like a manuscript rejected on the first page.

Let’s talk about the Marston lineup:
No long-winded soliloquies here—just a handful of well-placed hits and efficient run production.

S. Pegas scores twice.
A. Nivedita hits a triple in the fourth.
D. Tung brings in two with a clean swing that any copy editor would approve.
It’s not flashy. It’s not overwrought. It’s effective storytelling.
Now—errors. Three for Marston, one for Kenwood. Sloppy? Perhaps. But let’s not get bogged down in punctuation when the prose is this strong.

Kenwood’s pitching?
S. Scott gave them seven innings, but gave up five earned runs on six hits. No walks, which is commendable. Still, Game Score of 45? That’s a D-minus in my class. M. Ning cleaned up in the eighth, but by then, the plot had already resolved.

Marston finishes the season at 96-58. First in the Ruthlandian Union. And now, champions. Their second Pro Cup title, which, by historical standards, puts them firmly in classic territory—perhaps not quite Tolstoy, but certainly Dickensian.

Final takeaway?

“Unbelievable for us, for our fans,” said manager Aderrig Subandrio.
Unbelievable? No.
Earned. Deserved. Edited to perfection.

Kenwood, meanwhile, returns home with nothing but a blank page and a lot of red ink. Manager Jonathan Garcia’s quote?

“They simply outplayed us, they deserve it.”
Yes, Jonathan. They did. And if you’re lucky, someday your team might write a story like this one.

Until then, congratulations to the Marston Nine, champions of structure, balance, and timely execution.
A team that knows how to write the ending.

— Mr. Lippman
Editor-in-Chief, Pendant Publishing
Pro Cup Traditionalist. Syntax Enforcer.

[jg2977]

.

[jg2977]

1917 MLB Standings

Baltimore: 7th AL East Title
Minnesota: 5th AL Central Title
Seattle: 5th AL West Title

NY Mets: 3rd NL East Title
Cincinnati: 4th NL Central Title
San Francisco: 7th NL West Title

[jg2977]

..

[jg2977]

NO MORE TRADES FOR YOU!

You had your chance. You had months! You had spreadsheets, war rooms, burner phones, coffee-fueled analytics interns—but now? Now it’s over!

Deadline? Passed.
Negotiations? Finished.
Front office? Back burner.

You think anyone cares about that big deal you almost made?
No playoff wins for almost!
You think anyone remembers the free agent who “nearly signed” or the prospect you “refused to give up”?
Hah! NO GLORY FOR HESITATION!

Now… is the time of truth. The lineups are locked. The rotations are set. Every manager, player, and third base coach who still waves runners home on a routine single—they’re on the spot now.

This is not about rumors. This is not about hypotheticals. This is not about “what if.”
This is about what is.
And what is… is the POSTSEASON.

And here… are your Wild Card matchups:

Baltimore Orioles — BYE. Good. You earned it.
New York Yankees vs. Texas Rangers – One goes forward, one goes home.
Chicago White Sox vs. Minnesota Twins – A clash of Midwestern madness.
Seattle Mariners — BYE. Don’t get comfortable.
San Francisco Giants — BYE. Yes, yes, enjoy the quiet… for now.
Miami Marlins vs. Philadelphia Phillies – Florida humidity meets Philly intensity.
Washington Nationals vs. Cincinnati Reds – Someone’s bullpen is not making it.
New York Mets — BYE. Do not Mets this up. I swear.
There will be no soup for the losers.
Only banners for the champions.
You want a parade? A trophy? Your name etched in history?

Win. The. Whole. Thing.
Otherwise?

NO RING FOR YOU! 👋

[jg2977]

"Oh my goodness gracious... how about that eighth inning!"

Hello again, friends, I'm Verne Lundquist, and what a stunning turn of events we've witnessed here at Citizens Bank Park. On a brisk October afternoon in Philadelphia—sixty degrees, a gentle breeze from right to left—it looked for all the world like the Miami Marlins were going to sneak out with Game 1 of the Wild Card Series.

They were leading 4-3 going into the bottom of the eighth... and then, well, as they say in the business—the wheels came off.

Richard Oviedo came in out of the bullpen and faced a city’s worth of problems. Bases loaded? Check. Crowd on its feet? You bet. Pitching to Vince Brown? Oh, dear...

And there it goes! A 1-2 fastball lashed into right for a go-ahead RBI single—5-4 Phillies! But they were just getting warmed up. Moments later, Izzy Garcia—and let me tell you, this young man was magnificent today—he stepped up and launched a three-run home run that brought the house down.

“YES, SIR!” Ten runs for the Phillies. Seven of them in the eighth. The kind of inning you dream about when you’re nine years old and playing whiffle ball in the backyard.

Garcia finished with a homer, two hits, three RBIs and more swagger than a brass band. Vince Brown drew three walks, scored, drove one in—the man’s eye was sharper than a tailor’s needle.

As for the Marlins? Twelve walks drawn. Fifteen men left on base. They were gifted every opportunity but couldn’t cash in. J. Sachtjen tried—two hits, two RBIs—but the rest of the lineup... not today.

And I tell you what: hats off to Ivan Carrizosa, the Phillies starter. Wild? Oh, absolutely—a playoff record nine walks! But somehow, someway, he only gave up one earned run. You try explaining that to a pitching coach.

Folks, the Phillies now hold a 1-0 lead in this best-of-three series. They’ll go for the knockout tomorrow. And if today is any indication, the city of Philadelphia is in for a postseason to remember.

So long from Citizens Bank Park... and as always, I say—“You just never know.”

[jg2977]

Tommy Callahan (from Tommy Boy):

Alright! Lemme tell ya something, buddy — this game? WHOA! It was like watching a freight train full of fireworks and cheeseburgers slam into a dunk tank full of bald eagles! KA-BOOM! The Reds take Game 1, 6 to 3, and they did it with style, baby!

So right outta the gate, Washington’s like, “Hey, we came to play,” and BAM — Vinnie Pham launches a three-run tater into orbit off Johnny Landaverde. I mean, whoa Nelly, this guy hit it so far I thought it was gonna land in Toledo! But Landaverde just dusts himself off, probably eats a Slim Jim, and says, “Let’s go, boys!”

AND THEN — Cincinnati goes full-on Red Alert! Freddy Martinez hits a double! BOOM! Another one! DOUBLE-BOOM! That guy was swattin’ baseballs like they owed him money! And Nicholson? That dude goes deep! Like, really deep. I’m talkin’ “you’re gonna need a bigger boat” kinda deep. BOOM!

Meanwhile Chris Thomas — the Nats pitcher? Yikes. That poor guy got lit up like my Uncle Ted’s RV at a Fourth of July tailgate. Four and a third innings, nine hits, six earned runs, one souvenir home run. Call it what it is, folks — a dumpster fire in cleats.

Also — A.J. Liotta? A double AND a triple? What is this, Mario Kart? That dude had the star power activated. Zoom zoom, baby!

And look, I know Washington had some action: nine hits, a couple of clutch knocks from Villalobos and Pirelli, and they even got a little rally brewin’ in the ninth, but TONY PLASCENCIA came in and slammed the door like your dad catching you sneaking in past curfew.

So what's the bottom line?!

The Reds win! Landaverde gets the W, Martinez is hotter than a microwave burrito, and Cincinnati’s ONE GAME AWAY from moving on! Washington? Well, they gotta wake up tomorrow, look in the mirror and say, “I’m not gonna cry about it... I’m gonna win Game 2, dang it!”

Alright, I’m outta here. I gotta polish my batting helmet and carbo-load for tomorrow’s pregame. And remember: you miss 100% of the pitches you don’t swing at.

[jg2977]

Ace Ventura-style game recap:

Aaaaaaallllrighty then! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and squirrels, let’s talk about the WILD and WACKY showdown between the New York Yankees and the Texas Rangers! It was majestic, it was manic, and it was moist — because, yes, it was raining cats, dogs, and a couple of sliders at Globe Life Field!

Let’s dive deep, like a dolphin at SeaWorld, shall we? 🐬

The Yankees come in looking sharp — Mike Deming’s on the mound, and oooohhh mama, this guy was throwing HEAT. Seven innings of smooth, buttery brilliance! The Rangers could barely sniff a run early on. I mean, he was tighter than a pair of pleather pants on a sumo wrestler! HEEYAH!

But then — ohhhhhh then — enter the EIGHTH inning! 😱
New York’s bullpen walks in like “Hi! We’re here to ruin everything!” Nevarez gives up SIX hits and three runs like he’s handing out free samples at a ballpark Costco! And boom! We got a tie game.

But wait — there’s more!
We go to the tenth, and who struts up to the plate for Texas? DANNY “DYNAMITE” COLLAZO! One swing, KABLAMMO! He launches that baby into the Texas sky like a missile fueled by raw charisma! The crowd goes berserk, the Yankees go quiet, and somewhere, a hot dog was dropped in stunned silence.

Texas walks it off! FIVE to FOUR!
Final score? Drama.
Final mood? UNHINGED JOY.

Let’s talk highlights:

Yankees had the lead, then fumbled it like a greased watermelon!
Rangers had 15 hits... 15!!! That's not baseball, that's bat-on-ball-on-steroids!
Collazo's walk-off bomb? Laaaaa-hooo-zah-her for New York!
So what's the moral of the story, sports fans?

If you're gonna play the Rangers in October... you better bring more than good pitching. You better bring garlic, silver bullets, and maybe a priest. Because these guys? Possessed.

I’m Ace Ventura — and that... is the way the pinstriped cookie crumbles.

Spank you very much, and goodnight! 🧢⚾💥

[jg2977]

(Matt Foley, motivational speaker voice, wild hand gestures and hiked-up pants)

WELL LA-DEE-FREAKIN'-DA! 🗣

We got ourselves a good ol' fashioned ballgame, folks! The Chicago White Sox took their suitcases and their fragile egos and went up to Minnesota to take on the Twins, and let me tell ya something...

THEY. GOT. OUT-HUSTLED. 😤

Now listen up, 'cause I'm not just some guy who lives in a van down by the river — I ALSO happen to know a thing or two about gut-wrenching playoff baseball, alright?

Let’s set the scene... 👓

The Sox came out swingin' like they were gonna prove somethin'. You had Kyle Centeno — this guy’s hitting triples, doubles, drawing walks, scoring runs, basically doing everything EXCEPT selling peanuts in section 112! And still... AND STILL...

THE WHITE SOX LOSE!

You see, the Twins — they didn’t panic. Noooope. They were like that polite kid in your civics class who’s failing quietly but then aces the final. They just hung around, waited for their moment, and in the 8th inning? BOOM! DARRYL COOKE WITH THE CLUTCH DOUBLE! Puts the Twins up 6-5, and now Chicago’s cryin’ in the dugout like they just found out their prom date left with someone else! 😭

Let’s talk numbers —

The Sox only had seven hits. That's ONE hit for every time I fell through a coffee table in my youth!
Minnesota? TEN hits, people! That's almost as many times as I’ve been politely escorted out of the YMCA for motivational screaming!
And the pitching? Ohhhh HOOO!
Chicago’s bullpen was leakin’ more than my 1983 Ford Econoline!
Meanwhile, Minnesota's Myslinski shuts the whole thing down like he's guarding the last slice of pizza at a youth group lock-in!

So what have we learned here today?

If you're a team in the playoffs...
And you wanna blow a lead...
And you enjoy letting guys like Darrel Cooke stomp on your playoff dreams like a size-15 orthopedic shoe...
THEN YOU TOO... might end up like the White Sox...

Living in a van...
DOWN BY THE RIVER! 🚐🌊

GOOD NIGHT, EVERYBODY!
And remember — second game’s tomorrow... if Chicago shows up with the same energy?
I’m bringin’ the van. AND I’M STAYIN’.

[jg2977]

[Fire Marshal Bill enters, wild-eyed, grinning, shirt half-tucked, pointing at everything in sight]

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... LET ME SHOW YA SOMETHIN'!!!" 💥🔥

So we got ourselves a classic playoff barn-burner at Citizens Bank Park where the Philadelphia Phillies lit the fuse and sent the Miami Marlins up in SMOKE! 💣💥

NOW... imagine you’re a Marlins fan. You come in feelin’ hopeful, wearin’ your lucky socks, maybe holdin’ a churro... and then BAM 💥— right in the optimism! You score a run in the first inning, you think things are goin’ swell...

BUT THAT’S WHEN IT ALL GOES TO HELL IN A HAND BASKET! 🔥🎁

See this guy here? 🔍Jimmy Grubbs — pitched 8 full innings, only gave up 4 hits, struck out 6 batters, and OH YEAH, he gave the Marlins offense a nice big SMOOCH... then lit it on fire! 💋🔥

And then... in comes A. de Leon to close it out with a smile and a flamethrower. One inning, three outs, one save, no survivors. 🧯

Let’s talk about that 8th inning! See, the Phillies were just pokin’ around, chewin’ sunflower seeds, THEN BOOM 💥💥— Smokin’ Smalley, Big Carp Carpenter, and Vicious V. Brown hit doubles so hot, they nearly set second base on fire! I had to come down with a hose and scream “STOP, DROP AND ROLL, PHILLIES, YOU’RE BLAZIN’ OUT THERE!” 🚒🔥

And can we talk about Ian Farnsworth, MVP of the series? That guy was hittin’ like his pants were on fire. Which, coincidentally, mine are... 😳🔥

Now the Marlins? Well, they hit a homer — one little solo shot from C. Pyo in the 7th. Cute, right? Then they sat back, relaxed, and watched their season go KABOOM! Like puttin’ a toaster in a bathtub! 💀⚡️

Let this be a lesson in fire safety and playoff management! When you’re in the postseason and your bullpen’s leakin’ oil, and your bats go colder than my Aunt Ruth’s casserole leftovers, YOU’RE GONNA GET TORCHED!

THE PHILLIES MOVE ON!
THE MARLINS GO HOME!
AND I... will be inspectin’ the dugouts for any leftover matches, gasoline, or heartbreak! 💔🔥

REMEMBER KIDS!
If ya don’t bring the heat in October...
SOMEONE ELSE WILL!!!
🔥💥😬

"LET ME SHOW YA SOMETHIN’!!!”
throws clipboard, bursts into flame, exits in a puff of smoke 💨🔥

[jg2977]

.

[jg2977]

[John McEnroe voice — mid-rant, headset crackling with disbelief, half standing in the booth]

“YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!!!”

That’s right, folks! This wasn’t a baseball game — it was an absolute demolition at Great American Ball Park! I mean, 12-0?? The Cincinnati Reds just served up a grand slam-level beatdown on the Washington Nationals, and quite frankly, I haven't seen dominance like that since Björn Borg in '81 — and he wasn’t hitting two home runs like David Camacho just did!

Let’s start with that first inning — FIVE RUNS in the blink of an eye! Before the Nationals could even adjust their jock straps, Carrasco was out, his ERA sitting at 67.50 — and no, that’s not a typo, that's a thermonuclear meltdown! I’ve seen tennis players double fault six times in a row and still keep their dignity. This? This was a mercy mission!

David Camacho — are you KIDDING ME??
Four hits, TWO bombs, six RBI, and an MVP trophy to match? That man was hitting missiles like he was trying to de-orbit satellites. If he were on a tennis court, the chair umpire would be ducking behind the net!

And how about Rafael Alvarado on the mound? The guy threw a complete game shutout with 127 pitches — SEVEN hits, NO runs, NO walks... It’s like the Nationals were swinging with a frying pan! I haven’t seen that kind of control since Federer in his prime — and trust me, he wasn’t doing it with a 95 mph fastball!

Meanwhile, the Nationals — poor, poor Nationals — couldn’t buy a run if they offered to refinance their stadium. Seven hits, no runs, two errors, and enough men left on base to fill a bus. Look, I don’t want to pile on here, but if you’re showing up to the playoffs and your cleanup hitter goes 0-for-4 with four men left on base, you might want to stay home and watch it on the radio.

Bottom line?
The Reds didn’t just win this series — they served it, aced it, and broke the Nationals’ will in straight sets. They’re moving on to face the Mets, and if I’m New York, I’m watching tape of Camacho like it’s the Zapruder film.

Because if the Reds keep playing like this…
YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS thinking anyone’s stopping them.

🎾⚾ Reds advance. Nationals evaporate. Game, set, and humiliation.

[jg2977]

..

[jg2977]

[Paul O’Neill voice — warm, excited, just a little bit fired up from the booth at Globe Life Field]

Now that’s what postseason baseball is all about, right there! The New York Yankees, backs against the wall, staring down elimination in a hostile ballpark… and what do they do? They dig in, they grind it out, they punch back in extra innings with a five-run 10th — and we’ve got ourselves a tied Wild Card Series, heading for a Game 3!

Let’s talk about Mark Crane. The guy was absolutely locked in. Three hits on the night, a walk, three RBI, and oh yeah — the go-ahead single in the 10th that just broke it open. You can’t teach that kind of clutch hitting. That’s something you learn playing on backfields, getting jammed with inside fastballs until you learn how to fight through it. That’s Yankee baseball.

And then, how about Benny Digby? He puts the exclamation point on it — three-run bomb in extras, and let me tell ya, that was no wall-scraper. That ball was hammered. You hang one in October? These guys aren’t gonna miss it.

Now you’ve gotta give a ton of credit to Sean Lorenz on the mound. Seven innings of one-run ball — just battled all night. He wasn’t perfect, but he stayed composed, worked through traffic, and kept the Yankees right there in the game. That’s what you want out of your starter in a postseason spot like this.

And I’ve been saying this for years — good teams make pitchers pay. The moment Texas went to Hector Rodriguez in relief? Boom. Yankees saw him, jumped on him, and put up a crooked number in a hurry. That’s exactly the type of killer instinct you need in October.

Look, I’ve been in these games. I’ve seen the energy flip in the dugout when a guy like Crane comes through. The whole team stands a little taller. You start thinking, "Yeah, we got this." And now? The pressure’s on Texas. One game. Winner takes the series.

Get the coffee ready, because tomorrow’s going to be a battle. And I’ll tell you what — if Crane and Digby swing like that again?

You might just see the Yankees marching into the Division Series.

Let’s go!

[jg2977]

[Ken “The Hawk” Harrelson voice — southern drawl, full of fire, with a dash of disbelief and a whole lotta pride]

"MERCY!!!"

Folks, what we saw today at Target Field was a good ol’ fashioned beatdown by your Chicago White Sox! I mean, they came outta the gates swingin’ like they were double-parked back on the South Side!

And let me tell ya somethin’—Manuel Felix, he didn’t just have himself a game, he put on a clinic. Five hits! FIVE! That’s tie-the-record stuff, right there. You talk about staying inside the baseball? Hittin’ it where it’s pitched? The kid looked like he was takin’ BP. Put it on the booooard... YES!

And then there’s Danny Sanchez—how ‘bout that cat behind the dish? Three hits, including a two-run missile early, then another RBI knock. That boy was swingin’ it like it was '93. You know what I always say: “When your catcher hits, you're gonna win a whole lotta ballgames.” And today, we won big.

Now how ‘bout Ramsay on the mound? He wasn’t pretty—nah, he wasn’t—but he was gutty. Six and two-thirds, gave up three hits, just one run in a hostile environment. That’s what you call a bulldog. He put on his big-boy pants and shoved. And then Saenz came in, mopped it up, closed the door.

Meanwhile, Minnesota? They looked like a deer on ice out there. They couldn’t catch it, couldn’t throw it, and Lord help ‘em—they couldn’t hit it neither! You don’t win playoff games with two errors, five hits, and your first baseman takin’ a nap at the plate.

Now listen here, folks: this series is tied up, and tomorrow it’s winner-take-all. One more game to keep the season goin’. And if the boys come out tomorrow like they did today?

You can cancel Christmas for the Twins.

HAWKISM OF THE DAY?

"He gone!" — And by “he,” I mean S. Raymond, the starter. Gave up six runs in two innings. You hate to see it. Actually… no you don’t.
White Sox 10, Twins 1. One game to go. BUCKLE UP, BABY.
And remember what I told ya: Don't stop now, boys!
This one's gettin' good.

[jg2977]

[John Sterling voice, classic New York flair, dramatic delivery, flair for the moment—cue the organ!]

"THEEEEEEEEEEEE YANKEES WIN!!! ... THEEEEEEEEEEEE YANKEES... WIN!"

Oh, what a day, what a moment—what a series! From the heart of Texas, at Globe Life Field, the Bronx Bombers come through in the clutch, shutting out the Rangers 4-0 in a masterful Game 3 to punch their ticket to the Division Series!

Justin Bowles—oh my, Justin-time Bowles! The right-hander was cool as the other side of the pillow tonight! Seven dazzling innings, five hits, no runs, not a single strikeout needed! Just a steady diet of ground balls and outs! You want postseason poise? You just saw it!

And now... it’s time for a MARK CRANE MOONSHOT!
It’s a high fly to center... KISS IT GOODBYE!!!
“Crane-train leaving the station!” A two-run blast in the top of the first to set the tone. That’s Crane’s first of the postseason—and boy, it couldn’t have come at a better time!

And how about the MVP of the series—Ben Digby! Oh, Benjamin... my Ben! He’s hittin’ .417 in the series, driving in runs, scoring ‘em, flashing the leather at first base. Folks, that’s a gamer. That’s a Yankee.

Now let’s give some love to the defense—three double plays turned! Smooth as Sinatra, baby! Schultz to Ruiz to Digby? That’s a tune we’ll play all October long!

Texas? They gave it all they had. Tucker pitched his heart out—eight innings, one big mistake to Crane. But the Yanks? Too strong. Too tough. Too ready.

And now? It’s on to Baltimore!
The Yankees and the Orioles—two titans of the American League East set to clash in the Division Series. You want drama? You want history? You got it.

From Globe Life to the Bronx...
The Yankees are movin’ on!

And so, once again...
"THEEEEEEEEEEEE YANKEES WIN!"
🎙️✨