2025 World Series, Game Seven: Dodgers 5, Blue Jays 4 (F/11)

 

nearly enough

Of all the teams that have ever lost the World Series, none have come closer to winning it than my favourite baseball team, the 2025 Toronto Blue Jays. We can say this, confidently, without even taking into account the shattered-bat Alejandro Kirk double-play grounder (off of a zero-days-rest Yoshinobu Yamamoto splitter) right to Mookie Betts that left Vladimir Guerrero Jr., who had ripped a double to left field to open the home half of the eleventh inning, stranded as the tying run at third base to end the game, the series, and the season all at once. We needn't reflect in any great detail, either, upon Will Smith's home run in the top of that same inning against the stalwart Shane Bieber, nor yet the top-of-the-ninth, game-tying Miguel Rojas home run against Jeff Hoffman, who had pitched a stronger October than anyone could have hoped for, for this to be true. All we need to attend to, to clearly demonstrate this to have been the closest anyone has ever come, or could possibly come, to winning a World Series without in fact winning it, is a bottom of the ninth that first saw catcher Will Smith's foot lightly lift off of, and then just as surely barely return to, home plate just ahead of a sliding Isiah Kiner-Falefa, and then, a batter later, bear witness to defensive-replacement centre-fielder Andy Pages' headlong run both over and through Kiké Hernandez at the warning track to snag, and somehow hold onto, an Ernie Clement drive that, off the bat—and for a little while after, too, as Kiké desperately twisted and turned, dashing back helplessly, if not hopelessly—seemed all but certain to walk it off, and place Ernie Clement's name close enough alongside Joe Carter's for there to have been little to choose between them. Had either of those moments gone even the slightest bit differently, think what that would have made of Bo Bichette's towering three-run home run to the deepest part of the ballpark off of short-rest Shohei Ohtani a single pitch after Vladdy had been intentionally walked in the third; or of the incredible performance turned in by Max Scherzer, who shook off a miserable season to deliver another October befitting his inner-circle Hall-of-Fame career; or of Varland and Bassitt and young Trey Yesavage coming on in fine relief; or of the incredible defensive plays turned in by Varsho in centre and Vladdy (again and again) at first; or even of Ernie Clement (who now holds the record for the most hits in any postseason ever, at thirty, with Vladdy just behind at twenty-nine) and Andres Gimenez, at the bottom of the order, scraping out a fourth run late enough in the ballgame to feel like it might be just enough. All of those moments happened—they were real, and they mattered—but of course figure much differently now, given what followed, set against what might have.

As things unraveled—first in slow motion, then all at once, as is so often the case—there were moments in the game that were enormously difficult to watch. But, at the same time, I don't want to overstate that aspect of things. It took me about half an hour, I can see now, as I look at the messages I sent to some of the friends I share baseball with, to shift from the obvious and unavoidable sadness of it all to a feeling of genuine gratitude for the season. In fact, I used that exact language of sadness and gratitude; that is how hard I go in the chat. "This was my favourite baseball team ever, and they lost in extras in the best world series I have ever seen," I seem to have continued a moment later, at 1:54AM (all times Atlantic). "Will that 9th, and to a lesser extent that 11th, haunt me forever? Sure, a little!" When talk understandably turned to Hoffman's ninth, I offered only that "he was fantastic all October," and that I had no appetite for pinning it on him, even if that is precisely what he himself did, I would learn a little later, as he spoke in sombre tones to the press (I'd expect nothing less of him, honestly, but it's not how I feel, and I don't think it's how his teammates feel, either). In fact, here's the rest of what I posted (just as the autumn time change turned 2AM back into 1AM) to give you a sense of how raw I felt about things in the immediate aftermath, which you will see is not in actuality all that raw, I don't think, given the circumstances: 

"the bats had every opportunity in the 9th and it just didn't happen

if you want a single moment, imo it is IKF's lack of a secondary lead off third on the Varsho grounder

if he's even close to a normal amount down the line, I think that play goes differently

but at the same time Varsho is a guy who gets the ball in the air a tonne, so what are you gonna do   

Will we ever get closer during Vladdy's fourteen remaining years with the team? Probably not!

On the other hand, if we won this year, what purpose would Vladdy even have for the rest of his many playing days? It's good to have goals to work towards.

Let's keep trying to achieve them together, Vladdy."

My friends, as you have no doubt already surmised, are enormously patient people. But the morning after, I don't even feel right to have been as passingly hard on Kiner-Falefa as I was last night. Did we not see innings cut short earlier this selfsame series by liners hit right at guys, and guys subsequently doubled off of bases they hadn't been leading especially far off of? It happens! It's real! Is Daulton Varsho not a left-handed batter, which clears a throwing lane for the excellent Will Smith to fire a back-pick attempt to Max Muncy, playing reasonably close to the bag at third, should IKF be caught dangling? Kiner-Falefa was not on the roster, and was not put into the game, because he is any kind of burner with high-level baserunning acumen; rather, he was on the roster, and put into the game, because he can play a solid second base, and run better than this still-injured version of Bo Bichette who could only, for instance, go station-to-station in an early-inning rally that ended up scoreless this very same game. (It's incredible that Bo played at all, let alone hit as he did, but he simply could not run in his current condition.) If Miggy Rojas had not made an excellent throw (while falling!) after fielding a tough top-spin hop, or had Will Smith's foot lifted off the plate for a fraction of a second longer before returning atop it, nobody would have any interest in IKF's secondary lead, or would have anything to say about it at all; they'd instead be talking about how sharply he scampered home from third to win the World Series on a ball that never left the infield. But so it goes.

In the clubhouse after the game, there were some enormously poignant moments. I've already mentioned Jeff Hoffman's self-recriminations, which were hard to hear. A lot of attention is understandably being paid to Ernie Clement, whose heart is never far from his sleeve: "All I care about is just hanging with these guys for another couple hours." Vladdy, now one of the greatest October performers in the history of baseball, stood fully in his station, thanking the fans, apologizing to the city, but speaking almost exclusively about how proud he was of everybody. A reporter asked a question about seeing Vladdy comforting his crying daughter, and wondering, who will comfort him? "It's a game, it's a game. We lost a game," he said through his translator. "God will help my daughter, and myself." Shane Bieber was extremely grateful to have been a part of everything; Bo Bichette, taciturn as ever, said it was a great group that achieved some pretty cool things, and that he was proud of the guys (hey me too, Bo; me too). Of all the interviews I've seen, it was Chris Bassitt's that really got me, though. It's always been clear that he's an intense, emotional guy, but this was really something. "You can try to replicate this," he said in response to a question about next year. "But it's hard to replicate true love." I didn't actually see or hear Max Scherzer speak, and it's probably just as well, given what I've read of what he had to say. I don't think I'd have done too well with it. "I'm forty-one years old," Scherzer is reported to have said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I never thought I could love baseball this much."

KS