National Baseball League

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NYM vs. Arz

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1927 Playoff tree

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In the late innings of a tight playoff game, the tone changes. Everything gets a little heavier, a little sharper. And as we moved to the seventh here in Washington… the tension was unmistakable.
TOP OF THE 7TH — PIRATES LEAD 5–3
And Sean Jenkins, who had battled all afternoon, finally found a rhythm. Three up, three down. A flyout to left, a grounder to second, a grounder to short. Just like that… the door stayed open for Washington.
BOTTOM OF THE 7TH — GAME TIED, 5–5
And then… this ballpark came alive.
Alex Mejia started it with a hard single to left. Eddie Quizhpe followed with a patient at-bat and another shot through short. And on a 0–0 pitch, Bo Celauro turned around a line drive into the gap in left-center. Two runs scored. The Nationals, down two, had tied it.
And you could feel the momentum turning with every step around the bases.
A double play would end the inning, but the damage was done. All square after seven.
TOP OF THE 8TH — PIRATES TAKE BACK THE LEAD, 6–5
But Pittsburgh doesn’t go quietly.
A dropped throw at first puts the leadoff man aboard, and the Pirates take advantage immediately. Isidro Pruneda steals second. Justin Pitre—who had been the best hitter on either side today—shoots a ball through the right side to bring home the go-ahead run. His fourth RBI of the afternoon. Pittsburgh... back in front.
But Washington limits the inning to just the one. And that proves enormous.
BOTTOM OF THE 8TH — TIED AGAIN, 6–6
And once again, the Nationals answer.
A leadoff error. A sacrifice. A grounder that moves the runner to third. And then Luis Perez, off the bench, delivers a sharp single into right to tie the game. Cool, calm, and clutch.
Nobody around here sat down again after that.
TOP OF THE 9TH — PIRATES EDGE AHEAD, 7–6
And with the game hanging in the balance… Pittsburgh finds another run.
Another single from Alex Ojeda. Another stolen base from Pruneda. Another intentional walk to get to—who else—Justin Pitre. And Pitre, yet again, delivers. A single to right. A run home. His fourth hit, his fourth RBI, and the Pirates retake the lead.
It felt like a back-breaker. But this Nationals team… has a little magic in it.
BOTTOM OF THE 9TH — NATIONALS WALK IT OFF, 8–7
One out. A walk. A single. The tying run on second. The winning run on first.
Octavio Flores pulls a single through short. The throw home… late. Tie game.
And then it comes down to Enrique Mendoza.
Bottom of the ninth. Runners on second and third. One out.
And on a 1–1 pitch… Mendoza slaps a ground ball through the right side. Hernandez scores. Crowd erupts. And the Nationals—after trailing three separate times—walk off the Pirates, 8–7.
There has been no shortage of heroes today, but Enrique Mendoza gets the moment. His teammates mob him in shallow right field. Washington takes Game 1. And this Wild Card Series… is already delivering exactly what October baseball is all about.
Game 2 comes your way tomorrow… right here in the nation’s capital.

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.

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"Ooohhh the pain, the PAIN, Mets fans!"
We go out to Arizona — Chase Field, house of horrors — and what do the Mets do in Game 1 of the Wild Card Series? I’ll tell ya what they do: NOTHING! Absolute nothingness after the first inning. One run in the first, and then you could’ve taken a nap until the ninth because they didn’t do JACK.
You got Pedro Castro, some guy who sounds like he should be running a cigar shop in the Dominican Republic, and he’s out there looking like Juan Marichal, shoving for seven innings, three hits, one run, the Mets making him look like prime Pedro Martínez. Unbelievable.
The Mets offense? Fuggedaboutit.
Three hits! Three!!
And two of them were from Brubaker! Nobody else showed up.
Quinones? Oh-for-the-series so far.
Bosquez? Struck out twice, did nothing.
Huerta? Left about 40 guys on base.
It’s the same old Mets: scoring one run and then going into a medically induced coma.
And don’t get me started— the errors!
Stacks, Maurizi… Can we play some clean baseball please!?
It’s October baseball, not a Sunday beer league in Hoboken!
Meanwhile Arizona… they didn’t exactly light the world on fire either, but they didn’t have to.
They just… chipped away.
One run here, two runs there, tack on another in the eighth.
Ramos drives one in. Castro drives in two. Boom. Ballgame.
And how about this:
The D-backs leave nine guys stranded and STILL beat the Mets by three!
That's how bad the Mets were, bro. They couldn’t take advantage of ANYTHING.
Nestor Vigil… the poor guy pitched his heart out!
Seven innings, eight hits, four runs but only one earned.
I mean WHAT ARE WE DOIN’?
Give the guy some defense, give him a little run support, SOMETHING.
But no. The Mets waste another good outing. What else is new?!
Save situation for Whaley? Pffft. Easiest save of his LIFE.
Two innings, zero hits. BRO, the Mets weren’t hitting off a pitching machine at that point.
Bottom line, Mets fans…
You’re down 1–0 in the series.
You scored one run.
You looked lifeless.
If they don’t wake up tomorrow, forget it — season’s over, kaput, goodnight Irene.
And I’ll say this — brace yourselves —
This had BIG TIME 2006 Game 7 "looking at strike three" energy.
Just sleepwalking into the offseason.

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Tex vs. Det

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On a gray October afternoon in Detroit, with the rain falling just lightly enough to play ball, the Tigers and Rangers renewed acquaintances from last year’s Wild Card series — only this time, the script was flipped.
Last October, it was Texas that swept Detroit aside.
Today… it was Detroit that drew first blood.
“And a pleasant good afternoon to you wherever you may be,” as Troy Fleming stepped in, already having the look of a man ready to carve his name into a ballgame. And carve he did.
Texas struck first — a single run in the top of the first — the kind of early tally that makes the visiting dugout sit a little taller. But Detroit, oh Detroit, answered like a team eager to rewrite history. In the bottom half, Santiago Velasquez came up with two aboard and one out. Velasquez, the designated hitter, not known for many words, let his bat speak with a clean, sharp single into center field… and two Tigers crossed the plate. It was 2–1 Detroit, and they never looked back.
And then came Troy Fleming.
It was one of those days when the baseball must have looked as large as a harvest moon. Two doubles — both with two outs — and each one carving just a little more hope out of the Texas bullpen. He scored twice, he drove in two, and with every step around the bases, the 48,789 fans who had braved the drizzle seemed to warm just a little more beneath their ponchos.
By the end of the third inning, Detroit had piled up eight runs — four in that inning alone — and the Rangers were left trying to steady themselves against a Michigan wind blowing in from left field at ten miles per hour, as if even nature was pushing back against them.
Texas fought — to their credit they fought — scoring in the fourth, in the fifth, and again in the eighth… but every time they closed the door, Detroit quietly opened another window. A single here, a sac fly there, a double stitched down the line like a tailor finishing a uniform.
And speaking of tailoring, T. Wesley, Detroit’s starting pitcher, worked through 7 and 2/3 innings with the kind of determined, blue-collar grit this city knows so well. He threw 148 pitches — not a misprint — and seemed to grow stronger, not weaker, when a 19-minute rain delay interrupted the proceedings in the sixth.
There was even a bit of Wild West drama: in the eighth inning, Ruben Guzman of Texas was tossed out after arguing a strike call. And like the weather, the mood soured briefly, then drifted away on the breeze.
When the final out settled into a glove, the Tigers had taken Game 1 of the Wild Card series, 9–5. A rematch of last year’s sweep, and this time the Tigers are hoping to take the brooms out of the closet.
And as the fans filed out into a damp Detroit afternoon, one could almost hear the old refrain:
“In baseball, as in life, there’s always another chapter waiting to be written.”
Tomorrow, they’ll write the next one at Comerica Park.

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Tor vs Hou

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On a warm October afternoon in Houston, under clear skies and the elegant arch of Minute Maid Park’s retractable roof, the Toronto Blue Jays — a team that spent much of the season tugging at their own potential — found, in one decisive inning, the clarity they’d been searching for.
Game 1 of the Wild Card Series belonged to Toronto, 5–4, though the score alone can’t quite capture the rhythm of a game that unfolded like a slow-building symphony — quiet early, thunderous in the middle, and tense at the end.
For five innings, Houston appeared to be the steadier hand. A run in the second, another in the fifth, and the crowd of 48,946 — loud, confident, hopeful — sensed a familiar October script being written. Their starter, V. Luevanos, was steady, if not spectacular. Their lineup, deep and disciplined, kept chipping.
But baseball, perhaps more than any other sport, has a way of turning on moments — not always majestic ones, but precise ones. And in the sixth inning, Toronto found that moment.
The bases were loaded, one out, and Mauro Polidori — a catcher by trade, but on this day something closer to a lifeline — stepped in. Luevanos delivered, Polidori didn’t miss, and the ball soared into the gap. Three runs scored. A season’s worth of grinding at-bats from a team that never quite knew whether it was contender or pretender suddenly converged in one swing.
A 2–1 deficit had become a 4–2 lead. And with it, the entire tenor of the ballgame shifted.
Chris Neese, Toronto’s starter, had already been pitching well — effectively, confidently, and with the kind of command you need to quiet an Astros lineup designed to extract every inch of value out of every plate appearance. But once gifted that lead, Neese became something more: efficient, almost serene. Seven innings, just two earned runs, and a performance as steady as it was timely.
Houston, as they tend to do, didn’t go quietly. They added a run in the seventh and came within a breath of stealing the game in the ninth. But Toronto’s closer, F. Martines, navigated through traffic — three hits, two walks, and no margin for error — to secure the final out.
It was not easy. It was not clean. But in October, style points are for summer baseball.
What Toronto produced was something far more valuable: a road win, and with it, a 1–0 lead in a short series where every pitch, every call, every inch truly matters.
And as the fans filtered out of Minute Maid Park into a pleasant Texas evening, one couldn’t help but feel that this was the kind of game — determined, imperfect, dramatic — that defines postseason baseball.
Tomorrow, the Astros will try to even the series.
Tomorrow, the Blue Jays will try to eliminate the Astros on move on to the ALDS.
And tomorrow, October will once again remind us why it is the month baseball dreams are either fulfilled… or deferred.

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Man, let me tell you somethin’ — this game in D.C.? This wasn’t baseball… this was two teams tryin’ to give the game away like it’s Black Friday at Walmart! Errors everywhere! Droppin’ balls like they allergic to leather!
And the Pirates — THE PIRATES — actually win this thing, 8–6. Yeah! The Pittsburgh Pirates! A team that usually disappears in October faster than your paycheck!
And who saves ’em? Victor Barros. My man looked like he was hittin’ for a new contract! Three hits, three RBIs — dude turned Nationals Park into his own personal ATM. That’s why they call him “Money Bags,” baby! He wasn’t hittin’ the ball… he was makin’ withdrawals!
Then you got Bill Reyes. Bill Reyes went 1-for-5. ONE HIT. But ohhhh that one hit? That ninth-inning, bases-loaded, “please-God-don’t-let-me-strike-out” single? That thing broke Washington’s spirit like a bad group project. Two runs in, Pirates take the lead, and the whole Nationals dugout lookin’ like they just found out rent is due tomorrow.
And Washington — WASHINGTON! — Lord have mercy, these dudes had 12 hits and still lost! You ever get 12 hits and lose? That’s like goin’ on five dates in a week and still goin’ home alone on Friday night!
Errors everywhere — Celauro, Hernandez, Gutierrez… I ain’t sayin’ the Nationals’ defense was bad, but I seen better hands on a clock.
But the moment of the game? Top of the ninth. Nats bring in B. O'Donnell. And O'Donnell out here givin’ up hits like he’s passin' out Halloween candy! Four hits in an inning! FOUR! Pirates hittin’ him like they read the script beforehand.
And don’t forget Pittsburgh’s pitching — T. Ramirez out here throwin’ 113 pitches like he’s still payin’ off a debt. Dude gave up 9 hits and still got the win! That’s not pitching — that’s survivin’! That’s marriage-level survivin’!
Then they bring in J. Smith. And J. Smith gave up three runs so fast he probably should’ve been charged with a crime. ERA jumpin’ to 16.20 — that’s not an ERA, that’s a cell phone plan!
And the Nationals still had a chance in the ninth! Bases loaded! Crowd goin’ crazy! And then… you know what happens. Somethin’ stupid. Something ALWAYS happens to Washington sports in October.
Pirates close it out, series tied 1–1, and now we gotta do this again tomorrow.
And trust me — if today is any indication? Tomorrow’s game gonna be WILD.
Two teams fightin’ for their lives.
Two teams makin’ errors like they get paid by the mistake.
And somebody — SOMEBODY — gonna lose this series and spend the whole offseason explainin’ why they couldn’t catch a baseball.
And that… that’s baseball, baby!

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Ahhhh, hellooo once again everybody… Steve Somers with you, schmoozin’ on a Wednesday night, after the Mets — yes, our Mets — go out to the desert and somehow, someway, clip the Arizona Diamondbacks, 4–3, to even this little best-of-three wild card doohickey at one game apiece.
Now look, folks… the Mets had four hits. Four! Uno, dos, tres, quattro. This is not exactly Murderers’ Row out there, this is more like Murderers’ Light Sprinkle. And yet — and yet! — they win the game. You can’t explain it, you can’t understand it, you just accept it the way you accept your electric bill: it just shows up every month and you sigh and move on.
Scott Frey of the Diamondbacks — who was very good, by the way, six innings, two hits, didn’t give up an earned run — he’s the Player of the Game. Player of the Game! The Mets win and the Player of the Game is a Diamondback! Only the Mets could do that. They’d lose the award even when they win the game. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
But the big moment — the moment that will echo through the Schmooze-sphere — comes in the seventh inning. Two outs. Two on. Mets can’t hit, they can’t score, they can’t do nothin’… and up comes David Quinones. And Quinones, who by the way had half the Mets’ hits today, ropes a double into the gap, two runs score, Mets go up 4–2. And you’re thinking, well, that’s it, pack it up, send it to Game 3.
Meanwhile, the Diamondbacks, who had NINE hits to the Mets’ four, three errors, and looked like they were doing an imitation of the Washington Generals… No, no, not the Tucson Generals — the Washington Generals. You pick the sport, they were bad at it.
Let’s give a little credit where credit is due, though: M. Cain for the Mets — seven innings, three runs, no walks. No walks! For a Mets pitcher! The apocalypse is upon us. And then L. Garcia comes in, two-inning save, thirteen pitches, boom-boom-boom. Very un-Mets-like. Very suspicious. I will be filing paperwork.
Arizona? Ohhh, Arizona. Three errors. Missed cutoff men. Chapa hits a two-run homer in the first, the place is rockin’, and then the Diamondbacks offense goes home early to beat the traffic. Nine hits, one walk, three runs. That is… that’s Diamondbacks baseball, ladies and gentlemen.
So the Mets win 4–3, the series tied, and tomorrow… same place, same teams, same confusion.
We’ll see if the Mets can do that Mets thing again — y’know, where they either rise to the occasion or spontaneously combust like a cheap radio plugged into a bathtub. Either way, you’ll hear about it, right here, on the FAN.
I’m Steve Somers… the schmooze continues.

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There are moments in this game, as in life, when destiny seems almost within reach.
And on that cool October afternoon in Detroit, the Tigers stood just three outs away from touching it.
For eight innings, they had held the line. They had built a lead, protected it, tended to it like a small flame against the wind. A city held its breath, and a ballpark full of hopeful souls dared to imagine the next chapter — the Tigers advancing, the celebration beginning, the story continuing.
But baseball… baseball has its own sense of timing.
And sometimes, it can be cruel.
In the top of the ninth, with Detroit just three outs from moving on, the first crack appeared. A simple base hit from J. Woodfin — nothing remarkable, nothing dramatic — but enough to tie the game. Enough to make forty-nine thousand hearts sink just a little.
Then came Jadon Hobson.
A man who had already driven in runs, already made his presence felt. He stepped to the plate with two outs, two men aboard, and a silence settling over Comerica Park like a heavy fog.
And with one swing — smooth, effortless, merciless — he shattered everything.
A three-run home run, high into that gray Detroit sky, carrying with it the hopes of one team… and delivering new life to another.
In the space of a moment, the Tigers’ path forward crumbled beneath their feet. What had seemed so certain was gone, replaced by the cold sting of what might have been.
The Rangers had turned the game upside down.
The Tigers had watched their dream slip through their fingers.
And baseball — unbothered, unhurried — simply moved on.
Tomorrow, they will play again.
And Detroit will try to gather itself, to stand back up, and to write a different ending.
But on this day… they were three outs away.
And then, it all fell apart.

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Well let me tell ya, if you ever wanted to watch a baseball game that perfectly captures the pain, suffering, and utter hopelessness of the average working man… congratulations, you just found it.
The Toronto Blue Jays went down to Houston, and boy, did they play like a team that just spent the night sleeping on the couch because their wife “needed space.” Three runs, eight hits, and enough men left on base to fill my entire shoe store on a half-off ladies’ heels sale.
And the Astros? They win 5–3. Because of course they do. Everybody else gets lucky in life except me.
Now look — the Jays actually had a chance. They’re poking a run here, poking a run there, and I’m thinking, “Hey, maybe this won’t be like every sporting event I root for. Maybe this time, destiny smiles on ol’ Al Bundy.”
But no.
No, destiny took one look at Houston’s defense and said,
“Four errors? FOUR? What are you, the Chicago Cubs of disappointment?” And Toronto still lost.
I’ve seen more coordination in the shoe department on a day Peggy brings all her friends.
And then there’s Houston’s seventh inning. Two outs. Bases loaded. The Jays are almost out of it. Almost safe. Almost free.
Kyle Williams steps up.
Guy hits a bases-clearing double like he’s reliving HIS glory days — meanwhile I only get to relive scoring four touchdowns in one game at Polk High, because nobody ever listens when I talk about it!
That double made it 5-2, and Toronto never recovered. I haven’t seen a collapse that depressing since Bud tried to ask out literally any human woman.
Jimmy Sobie — Houston’s starter — throws 6.2 innings, gives up only two runs, and probably goes home to a wife who actually appreciates him.
Meanwhile, the Jays’ pitcher, C. Pearson, tosses 100 pitches and gets a 6.43 ERA for his trouble.
I haven’t seen someone work that hard for such terrible results since… well, me. At the shoe store. Every day of my miserable life.
So now the series is tied 1–1, and they play again tomorrow.
I’d say Toronto has a chance, but after watching this game?
Let’s just say I’ve got a better shot of coming home and finding Peggy cooking dinner.

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GREG BROWN:
“Raise the Jolly Roger! RAISE. THE. JOLLY. ROGER! The Pittsburgh Pirates survive a wild one here in Washington, D.C., winning it 8–7, takin’ the Wild Card Series two games to one! Oh baby, buckle UP—because that was a roller coaster with no seatbelts!”
BOB WALK:
“Yeah Greg, I mean… that thing had everything. Hits, mistakes, baserunning chaos, pitching that made you shield your eyes… and somehow the Pirates came out on top. I’ve seen smoother landings in a grocery store parking lot.”
Early Innings – Pirates Punch First
GREG:
“Right from the jump, the Bucs came out swinging. Two runs in the first, four more in the third—sixteen hits on the day! Sixteen! That’s not an offense, that’s a parade!”
WALK:
“Yeah, when you’re hittin’ like that, Greg, you don’t even need good luck. You just need someone to keep handing you bats.”
GREG:
“And Alex Ojeda—ALEX OJEDA!—three hits, a homer, two runs scored. That’s why he’s your Player of the Game. He was hittin’ everything but the Potomac River today.”
Washington Comes Charging Back
GREG:
“But oh boy, it wouldn’t be Pirates baseball without a little drama. Washington scores two in the fourth, then four in the sixth—here come the Nats!”
WALK:
“Yeah, Barnard just ran out of gas. As a former pitcher, I can tell you—when everything’s getting hit hard, it’s either time for a meeting or time for someone else to take the ball.”
GREG:
“And thank goodness for D. Breland, who came in, shut the door, and held the rope! Held the line! Whatever cliché you want—he stopped the bleeding!”
WALK:
“That’s what you call damage control. Like when you’re trying to fix a leaky pipe with duct tape. Not perfect, but hey, water stops coming out.”
Ninth Inning—HOLD YOUR BREATH
GREG:
“So we go to the ninth, Pirates up 8–6. S. Smith on the mound. First batter—TRIPLE. Because of course.”
WALK:
“Yeah, nothing like starting the inning with a ball rolling to a place nobody stands.”
GREG:
“Run scores, it’s 8–7, tying run at the plate… and Smith, with ice in his veins, finishes it off!”
WALK:
“Yeah, he didn’t give them much to hit. Probably because he didn’t want to watch any more balls rolling into triples.”
GREG:
“BALLGAME! Pirates take it! And they’re moving on to face Atlanta in the Division Series. Atlanta’s been sittin’ around waiting, and now they get a BUCCO TEAM that’s hot, confident, and hittin’ like they stole something!”
Closing Thoughts
WALK:
“You know, Greg… Pirates win a tight one, survive a bullpen meltdown, hit everything in sight… if that isn’t postseason baseball, I don’t know what is.”
GREG:
“And for the Nationals—well, goodnight to them. For the Pirates—bring on the Braves!”
BOTH:
“RAISE THE JOLLY ROGER!”

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MIKE FRANCESA (measured, authoritative, slightly annoyed at everything):
“Alright, listen… the Mets, they go out to Arizona, they win a gut-check game, okay? Extra innings, big hits, Weaver was tremendous — tremendous — that’s what you need from a star player.
And I’ll tell ya somethin’ right now… 84 and 78? That’s not a great record, folks, nobody’s throwin’ a parade. But compared to the nonsense we’ve seen the last few years? This team showed some—some spunk, some backbone. This was more like those early-20s Mets teams that actually played with purpose.
Are they a championship team? I’m not sayin’ that. Don’t put words in my mouth. But they’ve put the National League on notice. Brewers better be ready. Because the Amazins’—for the first time in a while—look like an actual baseball team again.”

CHRIS “MAD DOG” RUSSO (high-pitched, incredulous, frantic energy):
“OH MIKEY, STOP IT! SPUNK?! THE METS GOT MO-JO AGAIN! THEY GOT LIFE! THEY GOT HEART!
They’re down in the desert, they’re sweatin’, they’re exhausted — and BOOM! WEAVER! HOME RUN! DOUBLE IN THE GAP! HE’S BABE RUTH! HE’S LOU GEHRIG! HE’S HACK WILSON!
Nine runs! NINE! This is like 1921 ALL OVER AGAIN! THE AMAZINS’ ARE BACK, MIKEY!
And how about Garcia throwin’ three innings at the end? Three innings! When was the last time the Mets had a reliever who could get three outs, much less nine?!
MILWAUKEE BETTER BE CAREFUL, MIKEY! THEY BETTER BE CAREFUL!”

STEVE SOMERS (dry humor, sleepy sarcasm, dramatic pauses):
“Well… well… well… heellooo, once again, New York Mets fans…
You’re rubbing your eyes… pinching yourselves… asking…
‘Is this real? Am I dreaming?’
The Mets… yes… your Mets… scoring nine runs… winning an elimination game… ON THE ROAD…
And I say unto thee… rejoice, oh Flushing faithful… the Amazins’ have returned from the dead… much like some of my callers who resurface every seven years to complain about the bullpen.”
(lowers voice to his classic whisper)
“Milwaukee awaits… the city of cheese… and now, perhaps… heartbreak.”

JOE BENIGNO (emotional, nasal, long-suffering optimism):
“OH. MY. GOD. Bro—BRO!—WHAT A WIN FOR THE METS!
I mean, are you kiddin’ me? Are you KIDDIN’ me? We’re down there in freakin’ Arizona, the bullpen’s tryin’ to kill ya again, Jeoffrey blowin’ the lead—of course!—but then Weaver, bro… WEA-VUH!
Four RBIs! Hits all over the place! Weaver’s like the second coming of freakin’ Roberto Clemente!
I haven’t felt this good about the Mets since, like, the Twenties dynasty—ya know, 1921, 1922, 1923, those clubs had swagger!
Bro… BRO… are the Mets BACK?! I THINK THEY MIGHT BE BACK, BRO!!!
Bring on the Brew Crew!”

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Bob Costas-Style Commentary
On a crisp October afternoon in Detroit — the kind of day when the autumn light seems to linger just a moment longer over the outfield grass — the Tigers, champions of a modest American League Central, offered a reminder that baseball’s postseason is not decided by résumés, but by resolve.
Detroit’s 82–80 record did little to quiet the chorus of skeptics who saw them as accidental entrants into the October stage. Today, however, at a sold-out Comerica Park, they played with the conviction of a team that felt none of those doubts. And by the time the final out settled into a glove, the Tigers had delivered an emphatic 8–2 victory over the Texas Rangers to claim the Wild Card Series.
In a sport where the stakes grow sharper as the margins grow thinner, October often reveals unexpected heroes. For Detroit, that figure was Troy Fleming — a player whose steady presence became, on this afternoon, something more. Fleming’s two-hit performance, punctuated by a majestic three-run home run in the opening inning, set the tone not only for the game but for the spirit of this Tigers team.
He finishes the series hitting .545, reaching base in nearly two-thirds of his plate appearances, driving in six runs, and scoring four himself. An unassuming stat line becomes, in the pressure of October, a résumé worthy of MVP honors.
Gilberto Cisneros added his own flourish — three hits, a home run, and the kind of electric baserunning that stirs a crowd into believing something special might be happening. And then there was Patrick Carbigos, whose early triple seemed to ignite the entire ballpark.
On the mound, J. Carter delivered what every team desperately seeks this time of year: stability. A complete game, eight hits allowed, two runs — both late — and not a single walk. In an era where complete games have drifted toward the endangered, Carter crafted one of the postseason’s increasingly rare treasures: a start to rely on, and to remember.
As for the Rangers, their season comes to a close under the long shadow cast by Detroit’s six-run ambush in the first two innings — an early blow from which they would never fully recover.
And so the Tigers, written off for much of the summer, advance. Their reward: a date with the New York Yankees, rested and waiting, their history and expectations looming large.
The Tigers may have entered October as a team with flaws, questions, and an unsteady record. But today, before 47,926 roaring fans, they authored a reminder as old as the game itself:
In baseball, autumn belongs not to the favorites… but to the fearless.

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Jack Buck & Tim McCarver-Style Commentary
JACK BUCK:
“Well… if you like runs, if you like chaos, if you like a ballgame where absolutely nothing is safe — not a lead, not a pitch, not even the scoreboard operator’s sanity — then this one in Houston was for you. The Toronto Blue Jays… 18. The Houston Astros… 10. And the Blue Jays are moving on to face the Seattle Mariners in the Division Series.”
TIM McCARVER:
“Jack, you know, sometimes a postseason game feels like it’s played on roller skates, and today was one of those. Eighteen runs, eighteen hits… Toronto scored in five different innings… and they put up a seven-spot in the eighth that really put this thing out of reach. That’s what you call pouring it on, Jack.”
JACK BUCK:
“Toronto came out swinging like a team trying to get on a flight home before sundown. Six runs in the first, two more in the second… and before the crowd had even settled into their seats here at Minute Maid Park, the Astros found themselves down 8–2.”
TIM MCCARVER:
“And the remarkable thing is, Jack — Houston came back. Five runs in the fourth inning. Two big home runs from Konnor Van Cleve, one earlier from Joe Curtis… they actually tied the game at two points, and you could feel that ballpark shaking. At 8–8 and 10-10, it felt like Houston might take control.”
JACK BUCK:
“But then, Tim… the dam broke.”
TIM McCARVER:
“Boy, did it ever. The eighth inning… twelve Blue Jays came to the plate. You had a triple from Othniel Bishr, you had a triple from J. Contreras, you had balls bouncing off walls, through gaps, into alleys. It was like Toronto was running a track meet and Houston forgot their spikes.”
JACK BUCK:
“Othniel Bishr, the Israeli… the MVP of the Wild Card Series. He hit .462, he drove in five runs, he looked calm in a ballgame that was anything but.”
TIM MCCARVER:
“And Matt Holdcraft — four runs scored. That’s a Toronto playoff record. You could almost see him circling the bases thinking, ‘I’ve been here before already today.’”
JACK BUCK:
“Houston tried. They fought. They hit three home runs, they kept punching. But the Astros had too many mistakes — three errors, a passed ball, wild pitch, and a bullpen that just couldn’t keep the dam patched.”
TIM McCARVER:
“And Jack, postseason baseball does this. It finds your weak spots. It exposes your pitching depth. And the Astros used five pitchers… none of whom, frankly, could stop the bleeding.”
JACK BUCK:
“So the Toronto Blue Jays, who had to come into one of baseball’s loudest ballparks, against one of baseball’s most explosive offenses… walk out of here with eighteen runs, a wild 18–10 victory, and a ticket to Seattle.”
TIM MCCARVER:
“And the Mariners are going to have their hands full with this lineup, Jack. If Toronto hits like this — well… you’re gonna need a whole lot of pitching.”
JACK BUCK:
“I don’t believe what I just saw… but the Blue Jays sure did. They advance — after a game no one in Houston or Toronto will soon forget.”

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AL Division Series MVPs

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NL Division Series MVPs

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1927 Division Series