How does one begin to describe being in attendance at arguably the best game of baseball ever played?
I started this journey with you all in late April and early May of 2021. For the past four seasons,
everything has been leading to this moment, to this setting. Not necessarily the outcome, but there are no more summits to climb, with only three stadiums left unexplored.
How can anything top going to Game 7 of the World Series, much less this Game 7 of the World Series? That question is one for another day.
I am likely one of the few people in the world outside of the Dodgers’ organization who attended both games in Tokyo, the last two regular-season games in Seattle, and the literal final game of the year at the Rogers Centre.
Season’s soundtrack
As is tradition, I have created a wrap-up video for my travels during this 2025 season. One might notice that the bulk of field reports in 2025 have taken the form of song titles. This formulation was not accidental, but rather a roundabout way of having a private laugh. Song titles as essay hooks just fell into place, especially when the Dodgers had the road trip from hell after Labor Day.
Dave Itzkoff of The New York Times and I have been engaging in an intermittent private practical joke for the last couple of months. We are both fans of the HBO show Peacemaker starring John Cena. Its second-season theme song, “Oh Lord” by Foxy Shazam, is extremely catchy and arguably suits everything. The show’s cold open, which was often dramatic at the very least, would segue into the song, and the cast would dance with no expression. In context, it works; said aloud, one might question my sanity.
Itzkoff, I, and others have been testing this theory about the song because the internet is supposed to be a goofy, delightful place where one can and should be silly as a primary state of being.
If the 2024 Dodger season could be soundtracked to Kendrick Lamar’s Not Like Us, then I present the following argument that the completed 2025 season belongs to Oh Lord. If you do not believe me, one should check out my results with Kerkering’s Blunder, which concluded the NLDS, the end of the NLCS, Freeman’s walk-off in Game 3 of the World Series, where we all went a little mad that night, and the conclusion of the World Series.
If you want to condense eight months of adventures into a four-minute video with an earworm that works for both the good moments, the bad moments, the sentimental moments, and the moments of absolute insanity that no one will believe that someone outside of the team actually witnessed firsthand, then have at it.
Thanks for coming along with me. Not just this year but since the heady amateur days of 2021. It feels like I started this trek both a lifetime ago and last week. I have loved just about every minute of it, being blessed beyond measure, drinking the bounty of life with reckless abandon.
It’s my life
Saying that one is going to Game 7 of the World Series is an odd thing to say, much less do. Without being too dramatic, earlier that week, my doctors at Kaiser told me that a mass I was concerned about on my eyelid was not cancerous and could be removed in an outpatient setting.
Considering that father and stepfather passed from cancer within 18 months of each other, I was relieved. I did not discuss this issue with others previously because, until I knew more, nothing could be gained by worrying about the unknown.
Last year, I had a job opportunity fall through after I returned from Miami, having witnessed Shohei Ohtani transcend into godhood for an afternoon. As a result, even though prices for attending Games 4 and 5 of the World Series in the Bronx plummeted, the responsible thing to do was not to go.
So I sat on my hands and missed Brent Honeywell’s finest hour in Game 4 and the New York Yankees having an evening of self-immolation for the ages. My prudence, while correct, always bothered me as an opportunity that slipped through my grasp.
Accordingly, I decided to take a second crack at a denied opportunity in 2024. Naturally, while I did buy a World Series ticket for a potential Game 7 of a Dodgers/Seattle Mariners series, the matchup did not occur, and I received my money back with little hassle. Being told I did not have cancer put a figurative fire under me, as I asked myself a simple question: could I even pull something like this off?
I am gifted with travel logistics, but my specialty is long-term, careful planning, not last-minute slapdash shenanigans. It was relatively easy to put together, as just about everything could be cancelled with no cost to me in time for any flight to Toronto.
Considering the ongoing federal shutdown, I honestly did not want to risk flying out to Toronto on the same calendar day as the game, as the worst possible outcome would have been arriving at Rogers Centre too late to see most of the game.
I found a cheap hotel around the corner from Rogers Centre, and I figured the best strategy was to buy two one-way tickets, as purchased tickets can be refunded within 24 hours of purchase on most American airlines. I found a relative bargain for a seat at Rogers Centre. The ticket price was comparable to what I paid in Tokyo, in an area that I suggested in my own Rogers Centre guide.
I was not really paying attention to Game 6 of the World Series as I was hurriedly packing and getting the last details in place. On the True Blue LA writers Slack, everyone was justifiably freaking out when Barger’s Wedgeshot hit the wall.
Eric joked that I was stuck in place, much like the ball. It was not funny at the time, but it is quite funny now. I had everything in hand, ready to sprint out the door and head to San Francisco International Airport. In the end, I had a buffer of twenty minutes as the game dragged on.
I had only two sentences to say as I cut off communication with the writers here and rushed to San Francisco with literally minutes to spare.
“That’ll do. See you in Toronto.”
I suggested a headline of’ “TOOTBLAN!!!” for the recap headline, but sometimes genius just is not appreciated in its own time. What saved me was the fact that my flight to Toronto was via Detroit, allowing me to use my pre-check status to shorten the security experience.
After checking into Canada and having some Tim Horton’s to pass the time, I finally made it to my hotel, which was literally around the corner from the back entrance of Rogers Centre. The bad news is that I had to wait for a couple of hours before finally napping for a couple of hours.
It was 40 degrees F (5 degrees C), which is cold for a Californian used to Bay Area weather. The Canadians I talked to found my views on the weather adorable. Not wanting to delay the proceedings, and wanting to take advantage of the fact that the gates opened three hours before first pitch, I got into away gray and crossed the street.
I spoke with a couple of people with MLB cameras who stopped me and chatted with me about the circumstances that brought me to Game 7. Folks stared as I entered the stadium, bought food, and made my way to my seat. I have been primarily a road fan for the last eight years, and I developed rules to handle the most ardent of jerks masquerading as fans.
There are stereotypes about Canadians, but I learned a long time ago in NLDS Game 2 in San Francisco, when a little old lady, a third of my size, tried to pick a fight with me because she thought Adric was a voodoo doll: people, when emotional, get dumb.
For most of the night, I felt a pensive, anxious energy from the majority of the home crowd and the Dodgers fans I was interacting with online. Honestly, I was making an active effort to enjoy the atmosphere of the setting. Barring a stinker of a game, I was determined to enjoy every moment of this night.
The Greatest Game Ever Played
After I finished eating, I watched the rest of the crowd eventually funnel in. The fireworks truly started in the third inning with the loudest reaction to a home run that I have ever heard. The video does not adequately reflect the literally deafening roar that followed Bo Bichette’s home run.
What followed was the greatest game I have ever seen played — a tight, well-played contest that teetered on a knife-edge for most of the night. The game had the benches clearing, bang bang plays with the season on the line, the slowest strike ’em out-throw ‘em out in history, and more.
If you liked tension and runners on base, this game was for you.
However, I did not count on the Toronto faithful standing for most of the night, regardless of who was at bat. The irony, considering the cost of seat prices, was that most people were not bothering to use them except during the breaks between innings. I did the best I could, but I complained to the True Blue LA staff that I was no longer suited for this kind of activity, as I had long not been a service worker.
While the Dodgers’ offensive struggles throughout the past month have been well-documented, credit to the Jays’ defense for making play after play to minimize the damage.
Most Dodgers fans who passed my seat were stressing out over the outcome. Truly, I was as calm as a cucumber who repeatedly said that I was not worried about this game’s outcome. Yes, this game was winner-take-all, but something I wrote earlier this week kept coming back to me:
Toronto sports have a history of failure (usually, almost always, hockey, but occasionally baseball). For the first time in this series, the weight of expectation is on the Blue Jays, who have two cracks at winning a title at home. It is all fun and games to be scrappy until someone expects something out of you.
Personally, I’m picking Yamamoto over Gausman eight days a week and twice on Sundays….
Someone is leaving Toronto in tears — I would prefer it to be their team over ours.
Sometime last month, I shared a documentary of the consistent and comedic failures of the NHL’s Toronto Maple Leafs in the comments here at True Blue LA. I knew next to nothing about hockey when I first saw this video. I was gobsmacked by the Leafs once having an owner who was a combination of Arte Moreno, Bob Nutting, and Marge Schott (with less overt racism). I am reasonably sure the documentary depressed those who sat through it.
Imagine if that same team finally built a talented roster and kept finding ways to lose in comedic fashion—every single year (from geographic lesser rivals (think the San Diego Padres but worse) to historic rivals to the eventual champions to the point where the team was broken up afterwards.
The point is that Game 7 failure and Toronto go together like chocolate and peanut butter. Yes, the Blue Jays outlasted the Seattle Mariners in the ALCS, but frankly, it was a matter of watching who would fail first.
While the Blue Jays were putting up more of a fight than their hockey neighbors from down the literal street, what kept me calm was that pensive energy I was feeling throughout the park. The home fans were almost in shock that they were winning, and for all the bluster, everyone was waiting for that shoe to drop.
I was confident that the Dodgers would prevail, but this game was the type where I would have been fine with either outcome, considering how entertaining and exciting it was.
That said, if the Blue Jays faithful went home in tears, I would not complain.
After Max Muncy’s home run in the eighth, Shohei Ohtani was guaranteed to bat one more time. In the ninth inning, I believed in the power of the rally cap and waiting inevitably for the destined clash between Blue Jays closer Jeff Hoffman and Ohtani.
It would have been something out of fiction. Miguel Rojas said nuts to that scenario and did it himself to the shock of everyone.
I can confidently say that I have never been as shocked to my core about a home run. The gaggle of Blue Jays fans around me, some of whom had been quite abusive all game, was silent. The few Dodgers fans in the stands were ecstatic.
I learned days later that Rojas’ availability in Game 7 was so uncertain that there were discussions to activate Michael Conforto in his place. Had Conforto played, the Blue Jays likely would have won.
The Dodgers used all four of their aces in this game. When Yoshinobu Yamamoto came in to pitch in the bottom of the ninth, he truly did feel like the final boss for this World Series. Afterwards, I found that this belief was indeed correct.
The Jays had some measure of success against everybody but Yamamoto, so if the Blue Jays managed to get a walk-off on Yamamoto, they deserved to be champions. Honestly, the tension of the ninth inning did not register because I had total confidence in the defense backing up Yamamoto.
My initial thought was “of course this game is going to take extra innings. Pages have just flatted Hernandez – okay, sure, why not.” In retrospect, I may have been underestimating the Jays’ chances in the ninth.
Yamamoto held, and the Dodgers could not score despite loading the bases in the tenth. In the eleventh, Will Smith demonstrated why he is the best catcher in baseball, and my blood pressure finally spiked. For most of the game, my blood pressure remained stable and at normal levels, unlike the end of the failed Yamamoto no-hit bid on September 6th.
Watching the Dodgers claw all the way back and hold on to dear life in the bottom of the eleventh was an out-of-body experience. Even after Guerrero, Jr. doubled to start the inning, even with gulping breath, I did not doubt that Yamamoto would shut the door on the Blue Jays.
I even told my seatmates that to beat the champion, you have to knock him out, which was amusing considering that call was what Joe Davis used on the broadcast, which I did not see until much later. I watched the Blue Jays fans depart and loitered for about an hour afterwards, absorbing the vibes and memories, while unsuccessfully trying to find Stephen Nelson.
The rest of it involved scrambling back across the street to write some promised copy for Eric and then heading to the airport two hours later for my 6 a.m. direct flight back to San Francisco. This write-up took longer than expected due to the task of sifting through emotions and memories.
Final thoughts of fire and rain
No other ballgame can possibly compare to the magnitude and importance of this Game 7. I will never forget it. I must acknowledge this fact lest I spend time and effort trying to recapture a high of emotion that will likely never return.
In some ways, the parade and celebration were a mere denouement to a season that was uniquely mine in my travels. But as the song goes, I have been walking my mind to an easy time, my back turned towards the sun, Lord knows when the cold wind blows, it will turn your head around. While there is still time to talk about things to come, sweet dreams and other things are scattered on the ground.
I am always melancholy at the end of a season. This season, especially so. However, if you have made it to the end of this lengthy field report, please know that once winter gives way to spring, Adric and I will once again return to the road to provide in-person coverage of Dodger baseball.
