National Baseball League

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1933 AL Standings

Mike Francesa:
Alright, let’s slow this down and really look at the American League in 1933, because on the surface it feels straightforward — but it’s not. Tampa Bay at 105 wins? That’s not just a good season, that’s a tone-setting season. That’s the best record in baseball, they earn the bye, and frankly nobody’s arguing it. This is a grown-up team. They don’t beat themselves. They don’t panic. And they’ve separated from the pack in a way that matters.
Chris Russo:
Yeah but Mike, here’s the thing — Tampa Bay’s great, no question, but this league is loaded behind them. I mean, you’ve got Toronto at 97, Anaheim at 97, Boston at 93, Cleveland at 94, Houston at 92. That’s a lotta teams that can beat you in a short series. Tampa’s got the target now. Everybody’s chasing them.
Mike Francesa:
Fair. But Anaheim quietly did the same thing Tampa did — they took care of business, won their division, got the bye, and avoided the Wild Card chaos. And Anaheim’s 97 wins don’t feel fluky. They’ve been steady all year. They didn’t spike, they didn’t collapse. That’s playoff baseball.
Chris Russo:
Okay but let’s talk about the Wild Card, because that’s where this thing gets fun. Boston versus Toronto? That’s spicy. Toronto wins 97 games and still has to play in the Wild Card round. That’s brutal. And Boston’s sitting there saying, “We’re not afraid of anybody.” They’ve been lurking all season.
Mike Francesa:
Toronto’s dangerous though. They’ve been here before. They don’t scare easy. But you’re right — that matchup is not comfortable for either side. Boston’s offense can ambush you, and Toronto doesn’t always close teams out cleanly. That series could flip on one bad inning.
Chris Russo:
And then Houston–Cleveland! Mike, Houston at 92 wins feels like the most under-the-radar powerhouse in the league. Nobody’s talking about them like a top seed, but they’re always there. Always. And Cleveland — division winners, 94 wins — they’re tough, they’re physical, they don’t blink.
Mike Francesa:
That’s a coin-flip series to me. Cleveland earned the Central, but Houston’s been forged in October already. They’ve been through wars. That matters. I don’t care what the standings say — Houston is not a team anyone wants to see.
Chris Russo:
Now Mike, we have to mention this — the Yankees. Seventy-one wins. Seventy-one. That’s not a typo. That’s a collapse. They’re irrelevant in this race, and that’s stunning given their history in this universe. They weren’t unlucky — they were just bad.
Mike Francesa:
Same with Baltimore. When you’re a four-time champion franchise and you’re sitting at 59 wins, you’re not part of the conversation anymore. That’s a long way down. The league’s changed, and some of these old powers didn’t change with it.
Chris Russo:
And look at the bottom — Minnesota, Seattle — just lost seasons. Meanwhile Tampa Bay’s at 105 like it’s nothing.
Mike Francesa:
So here’s the big picture: the byes matter more than ever. Tampa Bay and Anaheim are sitting back, watching four very good teams beat each other up. Whoever comes out of that Wild Card round is going to be talented — but tired.
Chris Russo:
And that’s where Tampa and Anaheim have the edge. Not just talent — timing.
Mike Francesa:
Exactly. This postseason’s set up beautifully. No gimmicks. No surprises. Just pressure — and we’re about to find out who handles it.

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1933 NL Standings

Bob Costas:
When you look at the National League standings in 1933, the first thing that jumps off the page isn’t competition — it’s separation. This was a season defined by two teams operating on a different plane, and then everyone else trying, unsuccessfully, to keep them in sight.
Start with Atlanta. One hundred and eleven wins. A .685 winning percentage. That’s not just the best team in the league — that’s one of the most dominant regular seasons the National League has ever seen in this universe. They didn’t merely win the East; they rendered it irrelevant. Washington finished second, twenty-four games back, and that number tells you everything you need to know about how relentlessly the Braves controlled the season from April through September.
Milwaukee, meanwhile, was nearly as imposing. One hundred and four wins, a .642 clip, and complete command of the Central. Like Atlanta, they earn the bye without debate. And here’s the historical echo: year after year, these two franchises keep ending up in the same place — rested, confident, and waiting. The Braves and Brewers have become the league’s twin constants, the immovable objects around which every postseason is constructed.
But the rest of the league is where the intrigue lives.
The Wild Card round offers two matchups that feel very different in tone. St. Louis traveling to Arizona is a meeting of familiarity and ambition. The Cardinals, steady and unspectacular at 88 wins, know exactly who they are. Arizona, at 95 wins, still carries the residue of recent championship success — and the knowledge that they can beat anyone when October compresses the margins. That’s a series where composure may matter more than talent.
Then there’s Washington at San Francisco — and that one carries genuine historical weight. The Giants are back in the postseason for the first time in twelve years, and they didn’t sneak in. Ninety-nine wins. A division title. A statement season. For a franchise that had drifted to the margins of relevance, this feels like a reintroduction rather than a cameo.
Washington, on the other hand, arrives without drama but not without purpose. They weren’t close to Atlanta, no one was, but they were clearly better than the rest of the East. This is a team that has learned how to survive disappointment — and that can be dangerous in a short series.
And hovering over all of it are the byes.
Atlanta and Milwaukee don’t just get rest — they get perspective. They can watch the Wild Card chaos knowing that whoever advances will have already spent emotional and physical capital just to get to the door. History tells us that matters.
So the 1933 National League postseason sets up not as a question of who belongs, but of who can interrupt the inevitable. Because until someone proves otherwise, the road to the pennant still runs through Atlanta and Milwaukee — and everyone else is trying to catch up to a standard they didn’t set, but now must meet.

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STL vs. ARZ

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WSH vs. SF

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Bob Costas:
On a mild October afternoon in the Arizona desert, a game broke out that felt less like a contest and more like a referendum on modern postseason baseball. Nineteen runs for Arizona, eighteen for St. Louis, twenty-nine combined hits before the ninth inning was even complete—and yet, somehow, none of it decided anything until the tenth.
This was not a game governed by pitching or restraint. It was governed by nerve.
Isaiah Stephens, wearing Cardinal red, authored one of the great losing performances in playoff history—six hits, two home runs, six runs driven in. In most Octobers, that is enough to secure immortality. On this October afternoon, it earned him only the uneasy distinction of Player of the Game in defeat. Baseball, after all, has never promised fairness—only drama.
Arizona absorbed every blow. The Diamondbacks yielded leads, surrendered momentum, and watched the scoreboard tilt dangerously against them again and again. And each time, they responded. Ryan Trevino’s legs bent the geometry of the game with two triples. Fernando Armendariz, already responsible for an earlier home run, stood in the tenth inning as the embodiment of postseason nerve.
One swing later, Chase Field detonated.
Armendariz’s two-run home run in the bottom of the tenth was not merely decisive—it was clarifying. Arizona wins, 19–18, and claims a 1–0 series lead in a game that felt less like a Wild Card opener and more like a referendum on resolve.
Some games are remembered for their precision. Others, like this one, are remembered because they refused to end.

Colin Cowherd:
Alright—let’s cut through it.
If you’re St. Louis, this is a nightmare. You score 18 runs, your second baseman turns into peak Babe Ruth, and you still lose. That’s the kind of loss that sticks with you. That’s the kind of loss that doesn’t just show up in the box score—it shows up in Game 2 at-bats, in bullpen decisions, in that half-second of doubt.
Isaiah Stephens was unreal. Six hits, two bombs, historic stuff. But here’s the hard truth: when you give up 19 runs, the problem isn’t one pitcher, it’s your entire pitching identity. This was a staff that couldn’t stop Arizona with traffic, without traffic, with a map, or with instructions.
And Arizona? This is what dangerous looks like.
They don’t panic. They don’t play clean—they made errors, they extended innings—but they hit back. Armendariz is the guy you trust when chaos hits. Trevino stretches the field. Schleicher delivers when the inning needs oxygen. This team doesn’t wait for the perfect script—they rewrite it on the fly.
And let me say this clearly:
If St. Louis doesn’t win Game 2, this series doesn’t just end—it collapses. You don’t come back emotionally from games like this. Arizona didn’t just take Game 1. They took the belief.

The takeaway:
A 19–18 extra-inning thriller. Records set. Leads erased. One swing that ended it.
Arizona 1, St. Louis 0—but the real score is confidence versus doubt, and right now, that edge belongs entirely to the Diamondbacks.
Game 2 looms. And after this? Anything less than chaos would feel dishonest.

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For twelve years, October had passed through San Francisco without stopping. Seasons came and went, contenders rose elsewhere, and the Giants remained on the outside, observers rather than participants. When postseason baseball finally returned to the Bay, it did so without ceremony—and for much of Tuesday afternoon, without mercy.
By the eighth inning, Washington appeared to be authoring a tidy opening chapter. The Nationals led 7–3, had quieted the crowd at Oracle Park, and seemed poised to remind the Giants that October does not grant favors simply for showing up after a long absence.
Then the game tilted.
What followed was not merely a rally, but a release. Seven runs in the bottom of the eighth—each one erasing a year of waiting—transformed anxiety into disbelief and disbelief into euphoria. Joey Fields began the unraveling with a bases-clearing triple, the ball splitting the outfield and the deficit shrinking to a single run. Moments later, Bill Valenzuela stepped in with the bases loaded, carrying the weight of the inning and, perhaps, the franchise’s recent history.
His swing resolved everything.
The grand slam, Valenzuela’s second home run of the game, turned a nervous afternoon into a defining memory. In the span of a few pitches, San Francisco had reclaimed October, surging past Washington and into a 10–7 victory in Game 1 of the National League Wild Card Series.
Valenzuela finished 3-for-5 with two home runs and six runs driven in, a performance that felt less like a statistical achievement and more like a declaration. The Giants, long absent from this stage, were no longer tentative participants. They were contenders again.
October, at last, had found its way back to San Francisco—and it arrived with a roar that could be heard all the way to the water beyond the outfield wall.

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BOS vs. TOR

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CLE vs. HOU

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It was a cool October afternoon north of the border, the kind of day when the air feels a little thinner and every sound in the ballpark seems to travel just a bit farther. The postseason had arrived in Toronto, and with it, the familiar sense that something ordinary might suddenly turn memorable.
The Blue Jays wasted little time announcing themselves. In the very first inning, German Díaz stepped in and sent a pitch soaring, a clean, uncomplicated swing that brought the crowd to its feet and gave Toronto an early lead. Baseball has a way of introducing its central character quietly, and for this afternoon, that character wore number at third base and a calm expression.
Boston answered in the fourth, stitching together a three-run inning to remind everyone that October games are rarely decided early. But baseball, like the seasons themselves, has a way of restoring balance.
In the bottom half of that same inning, with two men on and two out, José Lapin was summoned from the bench. He took his time, settled in, and then lined a single into center field. Two runs crossed the plate, the lead returned to Toronto, and a small moment — one that never makes headlines in July — became essential in October.
German Díaz would return to the story once more in the sixth, lifting his second home run of the afternoon into the seats, a reminder that some days seem to follow a single player wherever he goes. He would finish with three hits, two home runs, and three runs scored, earning the quiet satisfaction that comes from doing one’s job exceedingly well.
Boston would make one last push in the ninth, but the afternoon had already chosen its course. When the final out settled into a Blue Jay glove, the scoreboard read Toronto 8, Boston 5 — and the Wild Card Series had its first chapter.
There will be another game tomorrow, as there always is in October, waiting patiently. But for this day, under clear skies and a cool breeze blowing in from center field, the Blue Jays took the first step — and sometimes, that’s the hardest one of all.

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Mike Francesa:
Alright, alright, let’s get right to it—this is a brutal loss for Cleveland. Brutal. You score nine runs, you get eighteen hits, your first baseman goes four-for-five with a homer and a triple, and you still lose the game? At home? In October? That’s a crusher.
Chris Russo:
Mike, I’m tellin’ ya, this game had everything—and none of it worked out for Cleveland! They hit, they ran, they answered Houston every time—and every time they did, Houston came right back. This was one of those games where you keep sayin’, “Alright, now they’ve got it,” and then—boom!—Astros again!
Mike:
Berthiaume. That’s the name. That’s the swing. Top of the tenth inning, tie game, crowd finally sittin’ down for a second—and bang, two-run homer. That’s postseason baseball right there. That’s a guy who knows the moment.
Russo:
And Mike, this is what Houston does. They don’t play clean—three errors, pitchers all over the place—but they play tough! They make you beat ‘em twice. Cleveland couldn’t do it once!
Mike:
And I’ll tell ya something else—you give Houston two chances to close out a short series? That’s dangerous territory. This team’s been here before. They don’t panic. Cleveland had chances—tons of chances. Thirteen men left on base! Thirteen!
Russo:
That’s the game right there! You got traffic all night, Mike! First, second, third—nobody out, one out, two outs—and they just couldn’t land the knockout punch. Kresse was unbelievable, but you needed one more big hit from somebody else.
Mike:
And Cleveland’s bullpen—this is where it falls apart. Turner can’t find the zone, Perezchica gives up the homer, and suddenly you’re playin’ from behind in extras. You can’t do that in October. You just can’t.
Russo:
And Houston? They’re laughin’ about it! Berthiaume talkin’ about heart and hustle—yeah, well, that’s nice, but it’s also execution. They executed when it mattered most.
Mike:
So now Cleveland’s gotta win tomorrow. Period. No wiggle room. Lose again, season’s over, and you’ll be thinkin’ about this one all winter—Game 1, at home, with everything goin’ your way, and you let it slip.
Russo:
Mike, if they lose this series, this game’s the headline. Not tomorrow’s game—this one. You don’t forget these.
Mike:
Astros take Game 1, 11–9. And Cleveland? They’re already on the ropes.

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For most of the afternoon in the Arizona desert, it appeared that the Diamondbacks were ready to do what they have done so often in this young but already decorated October history—survive. They hit first, they answered every St. Louis surge, and as the ninth inning arrived, they stood one out away from advancing, one routine moment from closing the book on the Cardinals’ season.
But October has never been kind to assumptions.
The St. Louis Cardinals, a franchise long defined by persistence and timing rather than spectacle, refused to yield to the script. Trailing late in a game that had swung wildly in both directions, they turned the final inning into a reminder of why their name continues to echo through postseason history. With two outs in the ninth, Mike Jankowski—hitless to that point—lined a bases-clearing double into the gap, a single swing that transformed near-elimination into sudden control. It was the kind of hit that lives not in box scores, but in memory.
This was not a clean game, nor a tidy one. It was loud, volatile, and defined by power. Dustin Love homered twice for Arizona, continuing a remarkable Wild Card series in which he seemed capable of bending momentum at will. The Diamondbacks launched five home runs in all, jumping ahead early and repeatedly pushing the Cardinals to the brink. Yet every Arizona blow was met by a response—most notably a grand slam from Alex McLaren in the sixth that kept St. Louis tethered to the game when it threatened to slip away.
By the end, the Cardinals had scored ten runs on eleven hits, five of them coming in moments when the margin for error had vanished. The Diamondbacks, for all their thunder, were left to reckon with the quiet cruelty of October baseball: thirteen hits, eight runs, and still not enough.
So the series, which seemed moments from conclusion, now stands level—one game apiece—headed for a winner-take-all finale at Chase Field. For Arizona, it is the sting of a missed opportunity, a reminder that the final out is the most elusive of all. For St. Louis, it is affirmation of an identity forged over generations: when the games grow tight, when the stakes rise highest, the Cardinals have a way of lingering—until suddenly, they are still standing.
Tomorrow, only one will advance. Tonight, the Cardinals ensured there would be a tomorrow at all.

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Jon Miller:
Well, Joe, if you’re a Giants fan, you waited twelve long years for October baseball—and you couldn’t have scripted it much better than this. After the drama and tension of Game One, Game Two turned into something entirely different. By the time the third inning ended here at Oracle Park, this one was essentially over.
Joe Morgan:
Jon, that eight-run third inning told you everything you needed to know about where this series was headed. The Giants were aggressive early, they forced Washington into mistakes, and most importantly, they made the Nationals pay for every one of them. That’s postseason baseball—capitalize when the door is even cracked open.
Jon Miller:
It started as a tight game, the kind you expect in October. But once San Francisco began stringing together quality at-bats—base hits, walks, pressure on the defense—the inning just kept rolling. One run became three, three became five, and suddenly the Nationals were searching for answers that just weren’t there.
Joe Morgan:
And look at Bill Valenzuela, Jon. This was a superstar performance across the series. He controlled the strike zone, drove the ball with authority, and came up big every time Washington needed a stop. When your best hitter is also your calmest presence, that sends a message to the rest of the lineup.
Jon Miller:
The Giants fed off that energy. Guillermo Barela, Josh Wagner, Edgar Perdomo—everywhere you looked, there was another quality swing. Fifteen hits, fifteen runs, and an offense that never let Washington back into the game emotionally, even when the Nationals chipped away late.
Joe Morgan:
That’s the key, Jon. The Nationals scored, sure—but none of it changed the tone of the game. San Francisco never stopped attacking. They didn’t play not to lose; they played to finish it. That’s what good playoff teams do when they sense opportunity.
Jon Miller:
And let’s not overlook the significance of this moment. Twelve years away from the postseason, a fan base starving for October relevance, and the Giants come back with a dramatic win followed by a decisive one. That’s how you announce you’re back on the stage.
Joe Morgan:
Now comes the real test. Milwaukee’s been waiting. They’re rested, they’re disciplined, and they’re one of the most complete teams in the league. But I’ll tell you this—San Francisco won’t arrive intimidated. Not after a series like this.
Jon Miller:
So the Nationals head home, their season complete. The Giants pack their bags and head to Milwaukee, carrying momentum, confidence, and a reminder that sometimes, the longest waits make the loudest returns.
And October baseball, Joe, has a familiar feeling again in San Francisco.

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Wsh vs. SF

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Mike Francesa:
All right, let’s get right to it, Christopher. Everybody told you this Wild Card Series was gonna be tight. Everybody said, “Oh, Boston and Toronto, buckle up, three games, coin flip.” Yeah? How’d that work out?
Chris “Mad Dog” Russo:
Mike, please! This was never close! I don’t wanna hear about expectations—this was a sweep, okay? The defending American League champs walked right into October and said, “We’re still here.” Boston scored runs, they hit the ball, and it didn’t matter one bit!
Mike:
Exactly. Red Sox put up nine runs yesterday—nine!—and they still lose the game. That tells you everything you need to know about Toronto. You score nine in a playoff game and you lose, you didn’t deserve to be there in the first place.
Dog:
And let’s talk about German Diaz, Mikey! This guy owned the series. OWNED it. Big hits, big moments, never sped up. Every time Boston tried to make it interesting—boom—Diaz answers back. Series MVP, no argument, case closed.
Mike:
Boston had leads, Dog. They had momentum swings. They hit homers, triples, all of it. And every single time, Toronto came right back. Fourth inning, sixth inning—bang, bang, bang—game flipped. That’s championship DNA.
Dog:
You’re right! And Boston’s pitching? Forget it. You can’t survive October when every reliever comes in and gives up rockets. It was like batting practice in the middle innings. Toronto ran, they took extra bases, they forced mistakes—classic postseason team versus a team hoping something good would happen.
Mike:
And here’s the thing people miss: Toronto didn’t even play clean. Two errors, some sloppy moments—and it still didn’t matter. Because when the game was on the line, their hitters were better, their at-bats were better, and their confidence was better.
Dog:
Now they get Tampa Bay, Mike! Fresh team, rested team—but let me tell ya something: you sweep a series like this, you walk into the next round feeling ten feet tall. Tampa better be ready, because Toronto’s bats are wide awake.
Mike:
Boston goes home, Toronto moves on, and the defending AL champs remind everyone that October doesn’t care about predictions. It cares about who can answer the bell.
Dog:
And Toronto answered it every single time. End of story.

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Bos vs. Tor

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Colin Cowherd:
Let me start with this: I don’t care what the spreadsheet says, I don’t care what the matchup model says—playoff baseball is about environment. And last night at Jacobs Field? That place was a pressure cooker. Houston brought the numbers. Cleveland brought the nerve.
Harry Doyle:
Boy howdy, Colin, that crowd was louder than a Fourth of July firecracker in a tin shed! You could practically see the stadium shaking when Hollander unloaded that homer in the seventh. I’ve seen hurricanes with less energy!
Colin:
Exactly, Harry. Houston did the hard thing—they hit elite pitching, they hit elite power—Ben Callender had three home runs. Three! And yet… this is why I always say: Home runs don’t equal control. Cleveland controlled the moments.
Harry:
You ain’t kiddin’! Callender was knockin’ balls all over Ohio—left field, right field, next county over! And the Indians just kept sayin’, “That’s fine, son… now watch this.”
Colin:
And that’s the lesson. Cleveland doesn’t panic. They don’t flinch. You fall behind? Fine. Sixth inning—boom, four runs. Seventh inning—Hollander steps in, crowd on its feet, and that ball leaves the yard like it had somewhere better to be.
Harry:
THAT BALL HAD A FAMILY, COLIN! Straight into the seats! Seven-five Cleveland and Jacobs Field went absolutely bananas! I think I hugged three strangers and a hot dog vendor!
Colin:
That’s leadership. Hollander—fifth-best average in the league—delivers when leverage is highest. That’s what stars do. Not highlights. Not box scores. Moments.
Harry:
And don’t forget Quinones and Walters! Those boys were knockin’ doubles like they were on sale! Eight runs between the seventh and eighth—Houston pitchers looked like they were searchin’ for the exits!
Colin:
Houston’s bullpen cracked. Not talent—context. You’re on the road, noise everywhere, and suddenly every at-bat feels like it’s worth double. Cleveland leaned into it. Houston tried to survive it.
Harry:
And survive they did not! Indians win it 12–10, series tied, and buddy—we’re goin’ to Game Three! Somebody hide the aspirin!
Colin:
That’s playoff baseball. One game left. Houston has the power. Cleveland has the pulse. And tomorrow? We find out which one actually wins championships.
Harry:
I’ll tell ya what, Colin—if tomorrow’s anything like today, I’m bringin’ earplugs… and maybe a fire extinguisher!

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Vin Scully:
On an autumn afternoon in the desert, with the roof closed and the air cool but heavy with expectation, the Arizona Diamondbacks took the field believing this was their moment. They had the pedigree. They had the memory of October glory. And for four innings, they had control of the game.
But baseball, as it so often reminds us, does not always honor résumés.
Colin Cowherd:
Let me tell you something—this wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t luck. This was the classic dangerous underdog formula. The Cardinals didn’t come in hoping Arizona would blink. They came in knowing Arizona eventually would. Because here’s the truth: experience is great… but pressure exposes everything.
Vin:
The Cardinals chipped away early, scoring in the first and second, never allowing the Diamondbacks the comfort of silence. And then came the fifth inning—an inning that changed the texture of the afternoon. Mike Jankowski’s grand slam arced high into the Arizona sky, a swing that felt as if it carried not just four runs, but the balance of the series with it.
Colin:
That swing? That’s leverage. That’s what happens when a team doesn’t wait for permission. Arizona had won championships before, sure—but St. Louis played free. And when you play free, the other team tightens up. You could feel it. Pitch counts rising. Bullpen scrambling. Momentum flipping.
Vin:
Ricky Martinez, so calm at the plate it bordered on serene, continued what had been a remarkable series. Two home runs, four runs batted in on the day, and a performance across three games that earned him the series’ highest honor. He reached base more than half the time, and when he swung, the sound of the bat seemed to linger.
Colin:
Martinez was the best player on the field—period. Not the biggest name, not the flashiest backstory, just production. That’s what travels in October. Four homers in a short series? That’s not hot—that’s locked in.
Vin:
Arizona made their pushes. A triple here, a home run there. But every time they looked up, the Cardinals had answered. By the late innings, the outcome felt inevitable, the score widening until it read 16–8, a number that scarcely seemed believable given how close the game once was.
Colin:
And this is where Arizona lost it—not on one pitch, not on one error, but in the margins. Walks. Missed spots. Letting innings breathe when they needed to suffocate them. The Cardinals took every inch and turned it into a mile.
Vin:
As the final out settled into a glove, there was joy, yes—but also relief. The kind that only comes when a team knows how fragile these opportunities are. The Cardinals had survived the Wild Card Series, two games to one, and earned the right to move on.
Ahead waits defending World Series champion Atlanta, rested and waiting.
Colin:
That’s the test now. The Braves had the bye. They had the dominance. But St. Louis has something dangerous—confidence earned the hard way. And trust me: nobody wants to see a team that just found its rhythm at the wrong time.
Vin:
October, once again, reminds us that it does not belong to the boldest predictions—but to the teams willing to keep swinging.

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StL vs. Arz