The cast: Storey, your narrator, a long-suffering Mariner fan who remembers every triumph and despair in three decades of fandom. Alex, his wife, who has rooted for several years of hopelessness, near-misses, and very recent success. Graham, their son (21 months old), who has only known 90-win seasons, loves watching baseball, and can recognize the Mariners logo at 20 paces, signing “baseball” enthusiastically every time.
The context: The Mariners last made the playoffs in 2001, a record setting 116-46 season that ended too soon with a 5-game loss to the New York Yankees. I was a senior in college and it was presumed they would be back for the next few years to try to get to their first World Series. They weren’t.
The 21-year drought is summed up beautifully in this two-page spread from the New York Times.
They played two meaningful game 162s with a chance to prolong the season on the last day. I was hanging on every pitch of the last few weeks for both. I documented this going into those days, in 2014, and just last year, in 2021.
September 30, 2022. Alex and I were watching in a hotel room in Bethesda, Maryland. Graham had fallen asleep in the sixth inning with the game tied at 1. We almost woke him up.
Friday, October 7th
4:00 pm: Everything is packed up and loaded into the car. We turn off the scoreless Phillies-Cardinals game, confirm that we still feel good about the long journey ahead, load Graham in the car seat, and depart.
4:07 pm: Game 1 of the Mariners-Blue Jays Wild Card Series starts. We’ve decided to listen on the radio (via MLBTV on my phone), which has the advantage of hometown broadcasters, but the disadvantage of not getting to watch. It’s the only way to make the trip work, though.
4:30 pm: We stop for gas, still in Philadelphia. The Mariners already have a 3-0 lead after a 2-run Raleigh home run in the top of the first. I’m in total elated shock.
Top of the fourth: I observe that we are passing through some beautiful fall foliage. I briefly wonder if we will have time for pumpkin patches this year. It occurs to me that October is not a month I have associated with baseball in some time.
Bottom of the sixth: Castillo still dealing in the game of his life, M’s up 4-0, the feed cuts out. We try not to panic. It returns and cuts out again. We miss one batter and the feed returns for good.
Bottom of the eighth: The game seeming firmly in hand, we count down the outs remaining. Andres Munoz makes it easy.
Bottom of the ninth: Mariners secure the shutout victory, stranding a Blue Jay on third. I pound the dashboard. Graham claps. We know that we can see the clinching game, but now not the elimination game, making the trip so much more worth it.
7:30 pm: We are in Williamsport, PA, home of the Little League World Series, where we have decided to stop for dinner. Alex has found the Bullfrog Brewery, with several GF options. Graham loves the giant green frog in the entryway. But they have a long wait. Williamsport is surprisingly hopping this Friday night, with a fall festival in town and live music seemingly everywhere.
8:00 pm: We are waiting for a table while watching a surprisingly good young band play across the street. I make a note to look them up later (apparently they are some kids in the Uptown Music Collective). Graham is jamming along.
8:45 pm: Graham is delightedly dipping his grilled cheese in ranch dressing.
9:15 pm: We’re back on the road. Alex starts driving for the first time. We celebrate going to Canada with some music from one of our favorite Canadians, John K. Samson.
9:20 pm: Graham falls asleep.
10:00 pm: We shift gears to The Weakerthans, Samson’s band of four albums before they went on so-far permanent hiatus.
11:30 pm: With the Priceline deadline looming, we try to figure out how much driving we have left in the proverbial tank. Alex says she can do another hour and I say I have at least two and a half. This puts us in suburban Toronto, namely the Holiday Inn and Suites Oakville. We book it, hoping the price is in Canadian dollars, but knowing it’s probably in American (and is still a good deal if so).
Saturday, October 8th
12:45 am: Having switched drivers again, we enter the line to cross the border, having just cruised through Buffalo (Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo). I thought crossing in the middle of the night would be genius to save time, not realizing that they would of course close most of the lanes overnight.
1:05 am: The Canadian border guard is surprisingly brusque, but also fails to give me the expected good-natured hard time for my Seattle hat and jacket, even after I say we’re going for the baseball game. It’s unclear whether he has heard of baseball. I fumble the name of the hotel where we’re staying, not realizing this would be such a problem, as though camping out in Canada for a night would be the gravest crime. The guard also doesn’t seem to believe I don’t own a gun. “Do you have any firearms with you?” “No.” “Do you own any firearms?” “No.” “Really? You don’t own any firearms?” “No…” But I guess I get it – #America.
2:05 am: I shift gears to our final Canadian audio experience of the night, the first episode of the new season of Heavyweight, which I guess isn’t technically a Canadian production though host Jonathan “Gooldstein” Goldstein certainly is. And they have a Weakerthans song as their theme. And John K. and his wife do a lot of new music for it. I mean, c’mon. Alex didn’t want to listen earlier, because I called it “very poignant,” which she correctly tagged as a code for “super-sad.” But Alex was just asleep and is about to go back to sleep.
2:10 am: Alex hasn’t returned to sleep. She is listening to the podcast.
2:47 am: Alex and I are both crying over the podcast.
2:48 am: Alex asks why I like sad podcasts.
2:49 am: I remind Alex that she was supposed to be asleep.
2:55 am: We arrive at the hotel. It is very green.
3:14 am: Graham is ready for bed.
4:35 am: Graham actually falls asleep.
8:55 am: I wake up five minutes before my alarm because of course I do, this is the day that I’m going to see Mariner playoff baseball in person for the first time at the age of 42.
9:33 am: Finish shower, don the Ichiro jersey I’ve had since 2007.
9:44 am: Graham is ready to go too.
10:48 am: Alex has found a bevy of amazing GF-friendly breakfast places, from which we’ve selected Huevos Gourmet in Mississauga. Graham tries to befriend a dog being walked by someone in a Jays winter cap and Jays jacket. Aside from him, there are not too many people sporting Toronto colors out today.
11:00 am: We are seated facing the window, where Graham gets to watch buses and people pass by, though he also cranes his neck to interact with the other young children in the restaurant, including a comparably aged child who is seated behind us halfway through the meal. He orders the “waf-ful,” perhaps his single favorite food. I try to focus on eating instead of the growing feeling of utter anticipation burrowing in my belly. It helps that the French-Mexican breakfast burrito interpretation is somehow amazing.
11:43 am: The state of Graham’s waffle is as follows:
12:30 pm: After a trafficky drive and an exciting approach to the skyline, we arrive in downtown Toronto. I find a parking garage that appears to be charging twelve Canadian dollars for all-day parking and is practically under the stadium. Alex was napping on the way over and wakes up unsure about the situation. We circle the block and see all the sites that lay around Rogers Centre: Ripley’s Aquarium, CN Tower, train museum, and decide to park in the ostensibly $12 garage. There is a small notice that says “Event rates may apply,” but no special notice to indicate that those rates do apply or what they would be. We speculate that it’s Canada, so people may not be trying to rip us off.
12:45 pm: Channeling our 24 hours in Helsinki nine years ago, Alex is exhausted but also has FOMO about missing a minute in Toronto. I reassure her that a power-nap is in order and Graham and I will go explore. We proceed to the stadium area in an effort to let Graham get some energy out before having to focus for hours on the big game.
12:56 pm: Posing in front of the CN Tower suddenly makes it feel incredibly real. I post this picture on Facebook and Alex later comments that I missed the opportunity to make a pun about the Mariners being up in the playoffs and that “things are looking up.” I am reminded how lucky I am to have a co-parent who not only tolerates my puns but encourages them.
1:07 pm: We reach the playground behind the outdoor part of the train museum, which has plenty of fun retired train cars and a ride-on kiddie train running through them in a figure-8 loop. Graham tackles the playground rendition of a train:
1:09 pm: I have found the most absurdly perfect rendition of a red maple leaf in the woodchips under the play structure, as though it were planted there by the Canadian tourism bureau. Graham is not impressed.
1:45 pm: Graham has proceeded to climb, chase squirrels, run down hills, stare at the elevated highway running near the park and point out every bus and truck, do the biggest solo slide of his life (about 8 feet, or I presume 320 meters), and wave to a few scattered fellow Mariner fans. We are joined by a reenergized Alex and we proceed to the train museum gift shop, where Graham picks up about twenty boxes of toy trains and tries to walk out with each. We replace them one at a time while the gift shop attendant smiles.
1:50 pm: We board the kiddie train. Graham has a smile that says this makes the eight-hour drive (eleven counting breaks) totally worth it.
2:10 pm: We split up for Alex to get GF food to bring into the ballpark (shoutout to Rogers Centre for incredibly lax/supportive carry-in rules) and Graham and I to drop off the stroller in the car and conduct an incredibly unpopular but necessary diaper change in the car passenger seat. Graham is then loaded in the Tula carrier and we head for the ballpark.
2:25 pm: We enter the park. They check our bags, scan our e-tickets, and we are in the building for the playoffs.
2:27 pm: I start crying.
2:29 pm: We meet a Mariner fan in the 50/50 line.
2:30 pm: Alex buys 5 tickets for the Wild Card 50/50 drawing for $10 Canadian, which I think is 87 cents American. The jackpot is north of $300,000 Canadian, which is still definitely real money.
2:35 pm: We pose for pictures in front of the field before heading down to watch the M’s throwing in right field and a bit of batting practice. We meet a clot of Mariner fans, many of whom have traveled from Seattle on red-eye flights. The atmosphere is buoyant and still a bit incredulous. One of the fans has a custom jersey with “KAREN” on the back and is incredibly friendly. We all shout and cheer to each Mariner as they run in from right field to the dugout in ones and twos. At one point, Scott Servais comes out and has a long chat with Paul Sewald, arm on his shoulder.
2:55 pm: I get to see JP Crawford, my favorite current Mariner, taking batting practice:
3:00 pm: We head up to our seats, hoping to get settled and then give Graham an opportunity to run around a bit more before first pitch. I have no interest in leaving my seat during the game. I am getting major Kingdome vibes, being back in a domed stadium with turf (albeit this one has a retractable roof, like Seattle’s current incarnation). It is cavernous and echoey and surprisingly warm, just like the Kingdome where I attended all of my first major league games. The waves of nostalgia and time are washing over me.
3:08 pm: We reach our seats. We are five rows down from the roof, but have a remarkably excellent view of the field despite this. It’s an incredibly well designed stadium to give every seat an excellent vantage on the action. I am reminded how well designed baseball is for spectation, that being able to see the whole field gives you a fantastic perspective on the game.
3:40 pm: We run Graham back out onto the concourse and let him chart his own course for a bit while we pick up some snacks and prepare to settle in. He runs up to a burger stand and points to the bun and shouts “brehh! brehh!” (for bread, one of his newest and favorite words). After steering him through hordes of Blue Jay fans, we lift him up to a shelf near a high window and he watches the Toronto cityscape in awe:
4:00 pm: We are back in our seats, before first pitch but after anthems and lineups. I am suddenly finding it extremely hard to sit still. Graham is much calmer.
Top of the first: I can’t believe this is really happening. Also, it feels like they almost score three runs in the first again, but Mitch Haniger, who I had a feeling would homer, strikes out swinging with two on and two out. No worries, there’s plenty of time.
Bottom of the first: Robbie Ray is pitching lights-out. I really can’t believe this is really happening!
Top of the second: Alex comments that Adam Frazier should pretend to be the star of the team and just get three hits and carry the Mariners. Frazier responds by hitting an absolute bullet that Bo Bichette leaps at the perfect nanosecond to barely grab. Graham is still very into the game, standing in the bafflingly empty two seats next to us (almost every other seat for miles appears full) and peering adorably over the railing in front of us:
Bottom of the second: Oh no. This is the Robbie Ray I expected us to see. The crowd is taunting him with every pitch, a cloying grade school “Robb-eee, Robb-eee.” He is visibly flustered, even from our 500-level seats. Teoscar Hernandez smashes a home run. Blue Jays 2, Mariners 0.
Bottom of the third: Vladdy knocks in another run. Blue Jays 3, Mariners 0. After winning 4-0 yesterday, it is hard to not feel like the game is over already. The crowd is deafening. We have to stand up for many things we don’t like (2 strikes on Mariner hitters, Blue Jay rallies) just to see the game.
Top of the fourth: We are still getting no-hit. The most powerful part of our lineup, 3-4-5, Suarez-Raleigh-Haniger, goes strikeout-strikeout-flyout. Graham is getting restless, preferring to climb the precipitous steps next to us.
Bottom of the fourth: During the mid-inning break, a Jays broadcaster is displayed live on the (truly impressive, massive, high definition) jumbo scoreboard. He is jubilant and excited with updates, then previews that Teoscar Hernandez is due up next as he notes “remember what he did last at-bat!” and moonwalks off screen. Teoscar Hernandez promptly deposits the first pitch in almost the exact same location as the referenced prior pitch he saw, making it Blue Jays 4, Mariners 0. I tell Alex that Scott Servais has to pull Robbie Ray immediately. He complies. Matt Brash promptly shuts down the Blue Jays like he wants to win the game or something. Graham has entered full-on snacks-only mode, where he is happy on one of our laps if he has a steady diet of things to munch on.
Top of the fifth: On Alex’s direct advice, Adam Frazier smacks a single to left field, breaking up the no-hitter. The Toronto fans clap more tepidly than they have for anything so far this game, acknowledging the four innings of no-hit ball by Gausman. Gausman responds by coughing up a double to Carlos Santana that nearly leaves the yard. The Mariners appeal the boundary call in a dubious gesture as I could see from the 500-level that it was not a homer. During the appeal, I comment to Alex that I might rather have 2nd and 3rd no out than 2 runs in because of the chance that the baserunners create more pressure that leads to a huge inning, especially after the end of the no-hitter. Alex disagrees. The Mariners promptly put me in my place by only getting 1 run after losing the appeal, on a JK sac fly that honestly didn’t look deep enough to score Frazier. Blue Jays 4, Mariners 1.
Bottom of the fifth: Scott Servais inexplicably pulls Matt Brash, our long reliever, after he threw 15 pitches to get three outs. He brings in our closer, Paul Sewald, in a 3-run deficit in the fifth inning. Sewald promptly does what closers do in these situations, which is explode. Blue Jays 8, Mariners 1. I actually briefly consider whether I, who has never left a baseball game of any level before last pitch in my entire life, should suggest leaving the only MLB playoff game I’ve ever attended. It’s mostly about Graham starting to get fussy on top of the scoreline, but I feel a surging heat in my cheeks. Blue Jays fans around us are asking how far we came for this and starting to apologize for beating us so badly.
Top of the sixth: Graham is posted up on the stairs with Alex, driving his digger toy along the stair railings before it inevitably careens down the steps or beside a fan. Before the first pitch of the inning, I take two actions: 1. turn my hat inside out and put it on backwards for a rally cap and 2. remove the Toronto rally towel that had been issued to me upon entering the stadium from my back pocket and put it with our jackets under the seats. The Mariners respond by loading the bases with France, Suarez, and Raleigh. I think Haniger will homer, but he strikes out. Frazier forgets Alex’s advice and pops out. It’s been like this all year for the M’s with the bases loaded and no outs, except here comes Carlos Santana, who I heard hit a grand slam on the radio just a few weeks earlier when walking home from the train. The Blue Jays pull their pitcher. The new guy spikes a ball in the dirt that lets all the runners move up one. Then Santana deposits a pitch over the wall (no doubt this time) for a 3-run homer that should have been a grand slam. I yell and leap and dance as he rounds the bases. The Toronto crowd is silent. I can suddenly see all the other Mariner fans in the 500 level, scattered but animated as we are. Blue Jays 8, Mariners 5.
Bottom of the sixth: Graham really and truly needs a break, so I suggest that I will take him to the concourse for this half-inning. Mostly I can’t stomach watching us give up more runs as we have now for four straight innings. Alex comes with us and goes to the bathroom, gets a drink. Graham and I post up at the window as before, watching cars, trucks, and buses pass through a now darkening Toronto. He sees a dog and goes wild. Kindly Jays fans come and wave to him, point out their favorite parts of downtown. I am sneaking glances on the concourse TV, baffled as Matt Festa delivers the first 1-2-3 inning for M’s pitching since the first. It will also be the last.
Top of the seventh: Our break goes so quickly that we’re still on the concourse when JP Crawford strikes out on a pitch a foot inside to open the frame. Graham lobbies for bread again at the burger stand, but we have a meal for him to snack on waiting from before the game. We return to our seats to watch Julio and France make quick outs.
Bottom of the seventh: Festa is allowed to go more than one inning and promptly gets into some hot water. He’s lifted for Murfee as Servais continues to unload the bullpen. Murfee promptly allows a steal and two straight singles. Blue Jays 9, Mariners 5. I feel a swooning sense of deja vu. Somehow, Murfee shuts down the next two batters and holds the line at just a one grand slam deficit. Graham drops his fork on the seats in front of us, where it falls to the floor. The fans in front of us shrug and smile, waving to Graham. They are not worried.
Top of the eighth: Just before first pitch, the guy (college aged? 25 maybe?) directly in front of my seat, who admittedly has a kernel of rice in his hair that Graham accidentally dropped in it, turns to us and says “Hey, if you leave now, you can beat traffic!” I smile wryly and remind him that we drove up from Philadelphia, we have an endless drive home, and we’re not going anywhere. He says “respect, respect, I get it.” The Mariners rattle off three straight hits, scoring a run. Blue Jays 9, Mariners 6. The Jays bring in their closer to pitch to Frazier, with a deafening lights-out extravaganza that reminds me of NBA lineup announcements. Frazier hits a single (his second of the day) that loads the bases. Bases loaded, no outs. We’ve seen this movie before. Carlos Santana is up. Graham is done eating and Alex and I are trading him back and forth showing him fish videos. We are changing the videos between every pitch, because he can’t decide if he wants to watch fish or diggers or trucks or helicopters or trains. The kid is overstimulated. My anticipation tears a hole in the roof. Santana strikes out. Dylan Moore is up. He strikes out for the second straight time. JP Crawford, my favorite current Mariner, is up. He hits a flair into no man’s land in straightaway center and it hits off a glove and rolls away and I turn my eyes immediately to home to see if Haniger has scored and see Frazier right behind him and turn back to JP hitting the bag at second and realize that he cleared the bases and the game is tied. I scream “JP! JP!” Tied game!” Alex nudges me and I realize why it is so quiet in the stadium, not just that the game is tied, but also that George Springer and Bo Bichette are both writhing in the outfield after they apparently collided and I finally quiet down and clap politely when Bichette gets up. Then they send out a golf cart to pick up Springer and I feel as sheepish as JP looks pacing around second base and we all clap for him as he lifts an arm to lift the crowd’s spirits. They put Julio on and France politely strikes out. Blue Jays 9, Mariners 9.
Bottom of the eighth: We put Graham in the carrier, on Alex, where he settles down. Servais brings in Andres Munoz, who threw 22 pitches the day before, snubbing Erik Swanson and making my heart drop. He strikes out Springer’s replacement before letting Bichette walk, steal, and get grounded over to third. Then he strands the go-ahead runner on third after Alejandro Kirk fouls off roughly 1 million pitches (600,000 Canadian) by inducing a ground ball right at Frazier.
Top of the ninth: The Jays leave their closer in after he blew the save. He rewards them by striking out Suarez before Raleigh smashes a double deep in the right-center gap. I am the only fan on my feet in our section. Haniger is up and can still redeem himself as my pick to click. He flies out, deep, but not deep enough. Raleigh stays on second. Frazier comes up and Alex reminds me that he has two of her promised three hits. He smacks the first pitch deep into right, where it looks like it might go foul and then lands beautifully fair and rolls into the corner. Raleigh walks home. The Mariners have not just completed the comeback, but taken the lead. I am whooping and jumping in a morgue. Frazier is 3/5 with 2 runs and the go-ahead RBI. The Jays pull their closer, put Santana on, accidentally walk Moore, and then JP is up with the bases loaded for the second time in two innings. This time, he grounds out. Doesn’t matter, he had the biggest hit of the game.
Bottom of the ninth: George Kirby has been warming up in the bullpen for what seems like an hour, which makes sense since he’s never pitched out of the bullpen before. He’s been our best pitcher the last month, but he also isn’t a reliever, so I’m not sure if we should go to Swanson instead. I’m also not sure whether to touch my rally cap – it got us here, but does the mojo always induce a comeback? I look around to see whether any Jays fans have a rally cap on, but those who have changed anything are mostly draped in their rally towels in varying states of despair. The scoreboard implores them to stand up and their players to be heroes. Kirby jogs in from the bullpen. He is the fourteenth pitcher of the game. I hold my breath for about twenty minutes. I am shifting my whole body weight back and forth between my feet rhythmically, as though I could take all the tension from Kirby by sloshing it around in myself. It takes him 23 laborious pitches, including endless streams of foul balls, to secure two outs sandwiching a walk to Matt Chapman. The winning run is at the plate with two outs. Kirby gets two straight whiffs on high fastballs. Instead of putting him away on the third pitch, he chucks another high fastball that Raimel Tapia clubs into center. For a half second, I think it’s a game-winning homer. But it’s dropping fast, more of a liner, and Julio has barely moved. He snags it cleanly and celebrates. Everyone rushes to the infield in front of second base. I pump my fists, then weep. Alex and Graham and I exchange high-fives. The fan in front of us who encouraged us to beat parking turns and points at Graham: “I hope he’s in college before you’re back here.” Everyone else is kinder, there are some somber congratulations and even a thank you for me not gloating as they file past our aisle seats. The Mariners dance on the field, as they have for every win since the middle of their fourteen-game winning streak. I weep.
8:35 pm: We finally leave our seats to head downstairs, maybe see if we can get toward field level to savor the last moments before we head out. The wait for the elevator is interminable. Graham is content in the carrier on Alex. We are in line for the elevator behind a Mariner fan in a Bret Boone jersey who says he wasn’t around for 1995 after I talk about 1995. We are giddy and stunned. Alex compliments and Blue Jay fan’s custom logo shoes. She says “thanks, I’m going to go home and burn them.” I admit that I briefly contemplated burning my Ichiro jersey when it was 8-1. Human superstition isn’t dead, or even lower than it was thousands of years ago, it’s just almost all been funneled into sports.
8:50 pm: We get to the field level seats and all the ramps are blocked but one, which leads to a celebratory clot of some 300 Mariner fans who are gathered around the dugout. We join them. It’s a scrum of disbelieving joy, war stories of how far we came, both this weekend and in life, to get here. The Mariners themselves start emerging in ones and twos, then large numbers of them, splashing champagne on the dugout, some embracing children and family members who start to fill the whole turf infield. I notice the KAREN jersey woman with JP Crawford’s crew. Chants go up for various players, but mostly it’s “Let’s Go Mariners” and occasionally “Beat the Astros.”
9:15 pm: We eventually, reluctantly, quietly, decide to leave. It is hard to walk away.
9:35 pm: After reaching the car (parking was, in fact, just $12), we buckle Graham in and decide to get out of Toronto and then make a plan for food and sleep in the suburbs. But Graham falls asleep in five minutes and Alex in fifteen and I am left with half a tank of gas, the Mets game on the radio, and some of the suddenly most vivid memories of my life. I drive straight through to the border, where the American guard just asks “what was going on in Canada?” and I resist the urge to say more than “a baseball game.”
11:45 pm: I stop for gas in upstate New York, a rural backwater outside of Buffalo. The card reader on the pump is broken, so I stop instead to prepay. The affable attendant is talking to two locals. They all turn to me, see all my M’s regalia, and excitedly ask if I watched the game. I smile. “I was there.”
11:50 pm: Pulling out of the station, I decide we don’t need to Priceline a hotel. We can make it back today. I am running on enough adrenaline to drive to Houston.
Sunday, October 9th
3:30 am: We stop at the Pennsylvania Welcome Center and we all pile out and go to the bathroom. Graham runs around the center and plucks brochures with animal pictures from the wall-length newsstand. I change his diaper, to his protestation. We walk outside to a glorious gorgeous October moon. Alex is ready to drive, having slept straight through. Soon, Graham is back asleep, and soon after, I am as well.
6:55 am: I wake up, disoriented. I think we have hours left to go, but we’re exiting for our new neighborhood. I watch as our house approaches. Strands of Talking Heads flow through the back of my consciousness. This is not my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife. But they are, of course, as they were in the song. And my beautiful son. And my beautiful beleaguered beloved and suddenly triumphant baseball team.
7:00 am: Thirty-nine hours to the minute after departing, we’re back.
