Baseball in October

Ernie Clement print by Stephanie Cheng

The World Series is five games long, or four, or maybe six. This year it was seven, the full complement and then more: instead of a standard 63 innings of baseball, it took the Los Angeles Dodgers 74 innings to finally beat the Toronto Blue Jays. At the bottom of the eleventh of game seven, the Dodgers made a double play that routed two Jays off the field in less than three seconds, finishing the game, the series, and the season. The bar I watched the game in, which had been full of screaming fans all night, was oddly quiet as we paid our bills, filed out, and drove home. 

Being a baseball fan is not always fun, exactly. It requires summer games that stretch out over several hours in the blazing sun, or into the night. There is a byzantine farm-team and trading system that changes team composition all season long, with players coming and going. There are new rules added from time to time—the pitch clock, the runner on second in extra innings—and fiercely debated among fans who could be divided into Old Romantics (the love of the game!) and Young Upstarts (a game that takes three hours on a regular basis). Like many Major League Baseball teams, The Toronto Blue Jays is not a "locals-only" team, and is largely made up of international players, with a single Canadian citizen on the team. Mid-season play can feel languorous, because unlike other major-league sports, which typically play about 90 games each season, baseball teams play a whopping 162 games each year. They start in April. If they're lucky, they finish in October. 

This year, we went to a game at the SkyDome (sorry, Rogers, but it will always be the SkyDome to me), and watched several more at various sports bars in various cities. When I say "we," I mean my family—baseball is a family affair. My dad and sister are the ringleaders; they've gone down to Dunedin in Florida to observe spring training, and will often organize viewings, listen on the radio when the game is live, or stay attuned to their phones. They went to Game One of this 2025 World Series together, a feat that baffles and impresses me. The rest of us—my mom, my brother, my kid, and me—are along for the ride, gamely paying attention to the big plays, then pivoting to tease the players and rank them based esoteric criteria: best squat, meanest mug, craziest bling, best mid-season hairdo. Baseball is medium stretches of nothing punctuated by action, if you're lucky. Sometimes it's long stretches of nothing, punctuated by nothing. 

Things were different this fall. I watched the Jays advance out of the corner of my eye—don't look too closely, or they might stumble—and they rose to the top of their division, then the top of the American League. On October 20, George Springer clobbered a three-run homer out of the park, knocking back the Seattle Mariners in the American League championship and ensuring that the Jays would play the Dodgers in the World Series. The photos of Springer look like he's blasting off, just pure sports joy. 

Not having watched the Jays in their postseason so far, I wrestled with if I should start now. Sports superstition is real and will also make you sound insane—my sister once detailed her game-watching outfit, right down to her showered status, while I nodded knowingly. I also debated if jumping on the bandwagon was uncool, because "real fans" typically demand that you suffer the lows along with enjoying the highs. 

I will sidebar here and admit that I love a bandwagon. I want there to be real stakes and real skill, which is why championship games hit harder than regular season play. The athletes are at the top of their game, hungry for glory and exploring the edges of sports possibility. The fans start to cluster and clump, sharing knowledge and jokes. I watched the last two games of the Women's Rugby World Cup this year, based on the recommendation of a sports writer for the Toronto Star, who promised excellent athleticism and a heartwarming story. Did I know exactly what was happening at all times? Certainly not. But it was exhilarating to see the Canadians beat back the New Zealand Black Ferns in the semi-finals, and just as devastating to see them lose to England in the final match. 

So the chance to watch the Jays maybe, maybe, take home the biggest prize in baseball was too good to pass up. 

I cried during the opening anthems. We were at Montana's, a decidedly mid eatery, but there were other sports fans and cheap fountain drinks and the biggest TV I could fathom. Knowing that this was the first time in a generation that our Toronto Blue Jays were out there made me emotional. Knowing my dad, who is a long-time Jays fan, was in the crowd, made my heart feel tender. And then watching the Jays collect nine—nine!—runs in a single innings made me guffaw with disbelief, a smack in the face to the smug LA fans who swore the returning champion Dodgers would sweep the underdog Jays. 

Following a series as closely as we did paid off. I learned about baseball, sure—there are 26 players on a team, but also 40—but we got to know the personalities of the players. Ernie Clement, who set the league record for most postseasons hits, also told a reporter they were doing well because they had "the power of friendship." Trey Yesavage, who made his major-league debut in September, went on to become the first rookie to pitch multiple 10-strikeout games in the postseason, and made it look effortless. He was our favourite debutante at the ball, especially when he struck out Dodgers superbatter Shohei Ohtani. (I also loved watching Louis Varland pitch: he looks like someone plucked him from the 1940s and has the rolling gait of someone who knows how to rope a steer.) Addison Barger slept on David Schneider's pullout couch the night before the series started, because he didn't want to be alone (a story confirmed, hilariously, by Schneider's girlfriend). Oops, here's Vladdy doing the splits again. Here's Bo Bichette watching his out-of-the-park homer as it goes, not even bother to jog at first as the crowd goes nuclear. 

The series was about more than just baseball. Like all sports, it's a metaphor for life and the values that we hold dear. It was satisfying to see the Canadians hold their own. It meant something that the Jays pitchers wrote "51" on their caps, an acknowledgement that Dodgers pitcher Alex Vesia was off the field and grieving. When Ernie Clement openly wept after the game, saying that he wanted just a few more hours to play ball with his friends, I felt that. I always want more time with my friends, too.  

Los Angeles has poured big money into importing Japanese players, a strategy that has paid off and made the game much more interesting for the international stage, but it also created a narrative that the Jays were going to be easy to beat. They weren't: underdogs, maybe, but the team held their own incredibly well. Both teams playing produced beautiful, exciting baseball. My favourite moment was when Wrobleski, pitching for the Dodgers, clipped Giminéz at bat, a move that cleared both benches and threatened a brawl in the final game. Once the dust settled, and Giminéz took his base, Springer, next at bat, drove his hit directly into Wrobleski's leg. Everyone went nuts, and it was genuinely funny to watch. Baseball can be witty; this was one of those times. 

The sports commentariat has largely proclaimed this one of the best and most exciting World Series runs in recent memory, and while I have no real frame of reference, I agree that it was very exciting to watch and fun to be a part of. It was more than watching the games, although that was great; it was also trading memes and fan art, listening to interviews, reading up on the sports and its players. It's a cliché to say "it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game," and doubly so when you happen to be on the losing side. But I genuinely believe that, while the Dodgers may have won the series, the Jays have won the game.