National Baseball League

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Mike Francesa:
Alright, let’s start right here. Because this game—this game—was completely and totally insane. Washington goes up thirteen to one, Thirteen–One, and I’m saying to myself, this thing is over, we can all go home, get the early train.
Mad Dog Russo:
MIKE! MIKE! I’m watchin’ this game and I’m sayin’, this is batting practice! It’s 13–1, the crowd’s goin’ nuts, the Nationals are laughin’, smilin’—and then BOOM! Miami says, “Hold on a second!”
Mike:
That’s exactly right. Because instead of this being a laugher, it turns into a four-hour roller coaster. Miami scores sixteen runs, they get twenty-three hits, and they are one swing away from flipping the entire series on its head.
Mad Dog:
Floyd Holte! Are you kiddin’ me?! Five-for-six! A homer, a triple, singles all over the place! The guy’s on base every five seconds! If Washington loses this game, Holte’s name is hauntin’ them for the next decade!
Mike:
Absolutely. Holte was sensational. But here’s the thing—and this is why Washington survives—they never stopped scoring. They go up early, they answer, they answer again. Kenny Van Cleve hits three home runs, three! Including that two-run shot in the sixth that makes it 17–10, which turns out to be enormous.
Mad Dog:
And Mike, you knew Miami wasn’t done! Ninth inning—BAM! BAM! BAM! Homers everywhere! Yamane! Kawazu! Maxwell! The tying run’s practically on deck!
Mike:
That’s right. Nationals Park went from party to panic in about three minutes. You could feel it through the television. And Washington’s bullpen? Let’s be honest—they were hanging on with duct tape and prayer.
Mad Dog:
This was not a clean win, Mikey! This was survive-and-advance stuff! If you’re a Nationals fan, you’re thrilled, but you’re also sayin’, “How did we almost blow a twelve-run lead?!”
Mike:
But—and this matters—it evens the series. One game apiece. Washington proves they can slug with Miami. Miami proves they are never out of a game.
Mad Dog:
Game Three? Forget about sleep. Nobody’s sleepin’. After this? You throw the records out, you throw the leads out, you throw logic out!
Mike:
Final score: Washington 18, Miami 16. One of the wildest postseason games you’ll ever see. And now, Dog—winner take all.
Mad Dog:
I can’t wait, Mike. I cannot wait.

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Mike Francesa:
Alright, let’s get this straight right off the top. This is a major upset. The Cincinnati Reds—who hadn’t sniffed the postseason in eleven years—go into Los Angeles and knock out the Dodgers. Sweep them. End of story.
Mad Dog Russo:
MIKE, THIS IS A STUNNER! An absolute stunner! Everybody thought the Dodgers were just gonna roll here—home crowd, star power, the whole thing—and the Reds come in like, “Nah, this ends today.”
Mike:
And let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Josh Curtis. Superstar. Face of the franchise. What does he do? One for eleven. One. For. Eleven. He was a non-factor, Dog.
Mad Dog:
A BUM, Mike! He was a complete bum in this series! I’m sorry! When your big guy disappears like that, you got no chance. ZERO chance!
Mike:
That’s exactly right. Meanwhile, Cincinnati gets contributions up and down the lineup. Bo Celauro? Series MVP. Hits .583. All over the field. Triples, doubles, big swings late. And John Dale—four RBIs in the clincher, player of the game.
Mad Dog:
And this game wasn’t easy either! Nine to eight! Back and forth! Dodgers had fifteen hits, Mike! Fifteen! And it didn’t matter!
Mike:
Because when it came time to get big outs, Cincinnati’s bullpen did the job. Jimenez settles the game down, Arriaga slams the door in the ninth, and that’s it. Season over for Los Angeles.
Mad Dog:
And think about this, Mike—the Reds hadn’t been here in over a decade! Fans probably forgot what October baseball even felt like!
Mike:
Now they move on. And here’s where it gets interesting. They face the St. Louis Cardinals, who’ve been resting, waiting, watching. Veteran team. Physical team. No nonsense.
Mad Dog:
MIKE, DON’T SLEEP ON CINCINNATI! You knock off the Dodgers like this, you believe you can beat anybody! That’s dangerous!
Mike:
Final score, Game Two: Cincinnati 9, Los Angeles 8. The Reds advance. The Dodgers go home. And Dog—this postseason just got a lot more interesting.
Mad Dog:
Ohhh baby. October baseball, Mike. NOTHING like it.

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This game is exactly why I love October baseball.
So let me start here: Boston wins because Boston knows who it is. The Red Sox don’t panic, they don’t blink, they don’t play tight—even when Houston keeps coming at them with hit after hit after hit. Sixteen hits for the Astros! And they still lose. That tells you everything.
Here’s my takeaway: Houston is talented, but Boston is sturdy. Big difference.
Houston had traffic all game. Berthiaume hit. Harrington hit. Beltran hit. They put the ball in play, they pressured Fenway, and yet—when the moment demanded one shutdown inning, one clean escape, they couldn’t find it. That’s the difference between a dangerous team and a playoff team that actually advances.
Now flip it to Boston.
Ethan Williams. That’s the story. Not flashy. Not loud. Just productive. Calm. Professional. He wins series. This is what contenders look like—your best player doesn’t chase moments, he absorbs them. MVP of the series, hits .778, controls the game from second base. That’s championship behavior.
And let me say this: Fenway mattered. That third inning? Boom—four runs, doubles everywhere, pressure baseball. You could feel Houston wobble. Not collapse—but wobble. And in October, wobble is enough.
Antonio Galindo gives them the big swing late, but this wasn’t about one homer. This was about Boston stacking quality at-bats all afternoon. Fifteen hits. Four walks. No defensive mistakes. Clean baseball.
And Houston? They made this interesting—but not decisive. Their pitching blinked first. Rueda gave them innings, but not control. Villeda comes in late, gives up the knockout punch. That’s October—your margin disappears.
So now Boston moves on to face Tampa Bay, the juggernaut. Best record in baseball. And I’ll tell you this right now: Tampa’s better on paper. Boston’s better at being uncomfortable.
And that series? That’s going to tell us who’s real.
Final thought: Houston didn’t embarrass themselves—but they didn’t seize the series either. Boston did. And that’s why the Red Sox are still playing.

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Michael Kay:
You know, when you look at this game, there are two things that jump out immediately. And neither of them should surprise you.
Number one: the Yankees lose to Cleveland in the postseason again.
Number two: they give away a game that they controlled for most of the afternoon.
That’s the story.
The Yankees came into Jacobs Field and, for seven innings, they were the better team. They got length out of Mike Aragon, who was terrific—seven innings, two hits, and he kept Cleveland quiet. They scored early, they answered every little push the Indians made, and they were in position to close the door.
And then the eighth inning happened.
This is where October baseball exposes you. The Yankees go to the bullpen, and suddenly everything unravels. Walks. Base runners. Big hits. And Cleveland, a team that does not panic, took full advantage. Four runs later, a 5–3 Yankees lead is gone, and the stadium knows exactly where this is headed.
Antonio Barrios was the difference-maker in the series. Calm, controlled, professional at-bats. He wins MVP honors, and frankly, he set the tone for Cleveland all series long. They didn’t need a lot of hits—five today—but every one of them mattered.
Meanwhile, the Yankees? Defensive mistakes. Missed opportunities. Zero walks at the plate. And when the moment demanded shutdown relief pitching, they didn’t get it.
That’s not bad luck. That’s not circumstance. That’s who they’ve been in these spots.
Cleveland wins it 7–5, completes the sweep, and now moves on to face the Anaheim Angels in the Division Series—a rested, powerful team that’s been waiting. The Indians have momentum. The Yankees are left asking the same questions they’ve asked before.
And until those answers change, the results won’t either.
Final score from Cleveland: Indians 7, Yankees 5.
Cleveland advances. New York goes home. Again.

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It was one of those October afternoons in Washington where the game seemed to breathe—sometimes calmly, sometimes in great heaves—until, at last, it exhaled in relief for the home club.
After dropping the opening game of the series, the Nationals found themselves with their backs gently, but firmly, against the wall. And in baseball, that’s often when a team reveals its truest self.
The final game unfolded not as a pitcher’s duel, but as a kind of joyous, breathless symphony of offense. Runs arrived early, often, and from everywhere. Miami would strike, Washington would answer. Washington would surge ahead, Miami would refuse to go quietly. It was baseball played at full voice.
And presiding over it all was Kenny Van Cleve.
Van Cleve didn’t just swing the bat—he seemed to conduct the afternoon. Three home runs on this day, six in the series, and each one arrived with a sense of inevitability, as if the moment had been waiting for him all along. Line drives became souvenirs, and the crowd of nearly fifty thousand rose again and again, scarcely believing what they were witnessing.
But this was not a solo performance.
Costeiro joined the chorus with two home runs of his own. Hernandez and Owens added thunder. Villavicencio ran the bases with purpose, and the Nationals, inning by inning, built a lead that even Miami’s stubborn resilience could not erase.
The Marlins deserve their bow. They swung hard until the very end, scoring thirteen runs, refusing to fade quietly into the autumn evening. There is honor in that kind of fight.
Yet when the final out was recorded, it was Washington standing tallest—winners of the last two games, victors of the series, and now bound for a meeting with the San Francisco Giants.
On a cool October day, with the wind nudging the ball ever so gently toward center field, the Nationals reminded us of one of baseball’s oldest truths: a series is not decided by how it begins, but by who endures.
And on this afternoon, endurance wore a Washington uniform.

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1935 Division Series

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NL Top Seeds

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Alright, let’s talk about this game, because this was classic October chaos — the kind of game that tells you everything about both teams in one afternoon.
Cardinals beat Reds 13–12, walk-off, Game 1.
And here’s the headline, folks:
👉 St. Louis won this game not because they were cleaner… but because Cincinnati blinked last.
That’s the difference in the postseason.
The Big Picture Take
This was a football score masquerading as a baseball game, and those games always expose who you really are.
Cincinnati came in swinging confidence. St. Louis came in believing they’d survive.
One team played to impress. The other played to endure.
Guess which one walked off the field smiling.
Let’s Start with the Obvious: Bo Celauro Was Incredible
Bo Celauro went nuclear.
Two homers.
Five RBIs.
Six total bases.
Player of the Game.
If you’re Cincinnati, you did everything you could ask your star shortstop to do. This is one of those performances where, historically, teams usually win.
But here’s the Cowherd rule:
Stars win headlines. Depth wins series.
And Cincinnati leaned too hard on the former.
Why Cincinnati Lost (Even with 12 Runs)
Let’s be honest — scoring 12 runs and losing is a red flag.
Cincinnati:
Blew multiple leads
Got almost nothing from the bullpen
Trusted a 16-year veteran in the ninth with the season emotionally on the line
Luis Arriaga has had a fine career. Respect it.
But this is October. This isn’t a nostalgia contest.
You don’t close games on résumé.
You close them on misses.
And Ricky Martinez didn’t miss.
Ricky Martinez: Moment > Resume
Bottom of the ninth. Tie game.
Busch Stadium buzzing.
Everyone standing.
And boom — solo homer.
That’s not just a swing. That’s a statement:
“This is our park. This is our game. This is our series.”
Two home runs on the day. Three runs scored.
That’s a guy who doesn’t wait for permission.
The Cardinals’ Identity Showed Up Loud
St. Louis didn’t pitch well.
They didn’t field perfectly.
They didn’t dominate.
But they did what veteran October teams always do:
Answer every punch
Keep traffic on the bases low
Make sure the other team had to be perfect
And Cincinnati wasn’t.
That sixth inning?
Six runs.
That’s where the Cardinals took control of the emotional temperature of the game.
From that point on, the Reds were playing tight.
The Quiet Truth About This Game
This wasn’t a fluke.
This was:
Cincinnati showing how dangerous they are
And showing how fragile they can be when the bullpen door opens
Meanwhile, St. Louis just reminded everyone:
“We don’t panic. We absorb.”
That’s why they’re up 1–0.
Final Thought — Series Outlook
If you’re Cincinnati, you’re frustrated… but not discouraged.
You hit. You can score. You belong.
But if you’re St. Louis?
You just won the hardest kind of playoff game — the one you probably shouldn’t have.
And those wins?
They linger.
Game 2 tomorrow at Busch.
And I’ll say this:
If Cincinnati doesn’t tighten the late innings,
this series is going to feel shorter than it looks on paper.

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MIKE: Alright, let’s get right to it. If you’re the San Francisco Giants, this is one of those games that stays with you. You’re up, you’re cruising, you’re hitting rockets all over the yard — and you still lose 19–12 at home. That cannot happen in October.
MAD DOG: Mike, this game was OVER! O-V-E-R! They had it in the bag, they had the crowd, they had Washington reeling! And then — BOOM — ten unanswered runs! TEN! You kidding me?! I mean what are we doing here?!
MIKE: The Giants scored in the first, third, fourth, fifth, and seventh innings. They had 22 hits. Twenty-two! You should not lose a game where you get 22 hits.
MAD DOG: You’re laughin’! You’re laughin’ if you’re Washington! That eighth inning, Mike — that eighth inning is a DISASTER. John Turner comes in, first pitch stuff, and Jesus Costeiro hits a three-run homer that turns the whole ballpark silent. That’s when the game flipped.
MIKE: That made it 15–12, and from there the Giants were done. Completely done.
MAD DOG: And how about Ji-won Park?! Are you serious?! Four-for-five, two homers, a triple, six RBIs — he was everywhere! That guy was the best player on the field by a mile.
MIKE: Park, Van Cleve, Costeiro — that’s the middle of the order saying, “Enough.” And here’s the thing, Dog — Washington didn’t play well early! Their starter couldn’t get anybody out. They were bleeding runs.
MAD DOG: Yeah but Mike, that’s playoff baseball! You hang around, you hang around, and then you pounce! San Francisco had chances to bury them — bury them! — and they didn’t.
MIKE: The Giants bullpen completely imploded. Turner gives up seven runs in one inning. Seven. In a playoff game. That’s unacceptable.
MAD DOG: UNACCEPTABLE! That’s a season-turner, Mike! That’s the kind of inning where you start questioning everything — your bullpen, your manager, your matchups, all of it!
MIKE: And now Washington takes Game 1 on the road. Steals it. Absolutely steals it.
MAD DOG: This is a gut punch. A total gut punch. San Francisco thought they were in control of this series — and now they’re chasing it.
MIKE: Final thought — if you’re the Giants, you scored twelve runs and lost. If you’re the Nationals, you gave up twelve runs and won.
MAD DOG: And I’ll tell ya somethin’, Mike — that’s the kind of win that can carry you. That’s a SERIES-CHANGER.
MIKE: Game 2 tomorrow. But San Francisco? They’re already behind — and they know it.

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AL Top Seeds

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Ahhh, Tampa Bay. October baseball. The air is crisp… the stakes are high… and suddenly—Boston shows up and eats everything in the refrigerator.
Because let me tell you something: this was not a game. This was an event. A spectacle. A slow, agonizing realization for the Rays that they were not playing against the Red Sox… they were being studied by them.
Ethan Williams? Ohhh yes. Ethan Williams. Six for six. SIX. FOR. SIX. At that point, he’s not a second baseman — he’s a concept. Doubles, singles, a homer — the man was a walking inconvenience. Everywhere Tampa turned, there he was… again.
And Boston? Oh, they were polite about it. Very polite.
Just a run here.
Another run there.
A casual three-run inning.
A seven-run inning.
You know. Normal things you do on the road in a playoff game.
Meanwhile, Tampa Bay’s pitching staff is out there looking like they misplaced the instructions. Balls flying everywhere. Fielding errors. Extra bases. At one point I’m fairly certain Boston was hitting doubles just out of habit.
And let’s talk about timing — because whenever Tampa Bay thought, “Alright, maybe we’re back in this,” Boston would immediately respond with something rude. A home run. Another double. Someone named Madigan hitting balls into places balls should not go.
Matt Croke? Smooth. Calm. Efficient. Like a man filing paperwork… except the paperwork is runs batted in.
By the seventh inning, this thing had turned into an avalanche. A polite, relentless New England avalanche. And Tampa? Tampa’s just standing there, arms out, saying, “Is this still happening?”
Final score: 15–9, but let’s be honest — it felt worse.
Boston walks out with Game 1, smiles all around, and Tampa Bay is left staring at the scoreboard, wondering how on earth Ethan Williams managed to be everywhere… all at once… six times.
October baseball.
Delicious, isn’t it? 😏⚾

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Wellllll… hi again, everybody.
This is not how I wanted to start the ALDS.
The Indians come all the way out to Anaheim, score twelve runs, hit the ball all over the park, and somehow — somehow — they still lose. Final score: Angels 14, Indians 12, and if you’re wondering how that happens, pull up a chair.
Cleveland actually jumps on ’em early. Amero goes deep — twice. Barrios looks like Babe Ruth’s angry cousin, driving in four runs, hitting rockets everywhere, and for a while you’re thinking, “Hey! Maybe this is our day!”
And then…
The fifth inning happens.
Grand slam.
Not a little one.
A big, loud, Anaheim-style grand slam by Emmanuel Rodriguez, and just like that — poof — the Angels remember they’re the defending champions and the Indians remember why ulcers exist.
Errors? Oh, we had errors. Five of them. Balls kicked around like they owed somebody money. You score twelve runs, folks, you shouldn’t need a calculator to figure out the win.
The Angels didn’t even look impressed. They just kept coming. Triples, doubles, stolen bases — Marquis running around like he’s late for a flight. Marku hits one into orbit. Rodriguez smiles politely after crushing Cleveland’s hopes into souvenir dust.
And give Cleveland credit — they kept swinging. They kept fighting. They kept giving me hope — which, frankly, feels personal at this point.
But Anaheim holds on. They take Game 1, 14–12, and the Angels open their title defense looking exactly like a team that knows how October works.
As for the Indians?
Plenty of offense.
Plenty of heart.
And just enough mistakes to ruin a perfectly good afternoon.
We’ll be back tomorrow.
Because we have to be.

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October 6th, 1935. Busch Stadium. A Sunday afternoon that began with tension and ended in excess.
If postseason baseball is often described as a tightening vise, this game defied the metaphor entirely. It expanded, ballooned, spilled over — and when it was finally done, the Cincinnati Reds had authored one of the more audacious offensive performances in recent October memory, defeating the St. Louis Cardinals 15–11 to even this Division Series at one game apiece.
The Cardinals entered the afternoon as the National League’s top seed, owners of 101 wins and the quiet confidence that comes with a season spent setting the pace. Cincinnati arrived carrying something different: urgency, history, and a sense that their long absence from this stage — eleven years and counting — was not going to be corrected timidly.
The game turned decisively, and perhaps irrevocably, in the fourth inning.
St. Louis had survived early damage, trailing only 3–0, when Bo Celauro stepped in with the bases loaded. Celauro, already carving out a remarkable postseason résumé, did not complicate the moment. He drove a Tony Colin fastball into the seats, a grand slam that hushed the crowd and announced, unmistakably, that this would not be a gentle afternoon for the home club. In the span of one swing, the Reds led 7–0, and the tenor of the game shifted from playoff chess match to something far more chaotic.
Yet the Cardinals did not disappear. They rarely do.
St. Louis chipped away, powered by relentless contact and timely extra-base hits. Martinez’s two-run home run and a flurry of doubles pulled the Cardinals back into the game, and by the fifth inning the deficit had shrunk two runs. The crowd, nearly 48,000 strong, re-engaged, sensing that this contest — already untidy — might yet tilt back toward the favorites.
But Cincinnati, on this day, always had another answer.
Preston Bernier was at the center of nearly all of them. Four hits in five trips, a home run, three runs driven in — his performance was not merely productive, it was stabilizing. Every time St. Louis threatened to reclaim momentum, Bernier and the Reds responded with precision. A seven-run seventh inning finally broke the game open, featuring home runs from Bernier, Dale, and Kendrick, turning a one-run contest into a five-run cushion that even this wild afternoon could not fully erode.
The Cardinals finished with 16 hits and 11 runs, numbers that typically tell the story of victory. Instead, they are rendered almost incidental by three defensive errors and an inability to contain Cincinnati’s power at key moments. October baseball often punishes inefficiency, and St. Louis paid dearly for every misstep.
When it was finally over — three hours and forty-two minutes later — the Reds walked off the field having scored 15 runs on 14 hits, committing no errors, and reasserting themselves in a series that now shifts to Cincinnati with renewed intrigue.
For a franchise long removed from the postseason spotlight, this was not merely a win. It was a statement: that they belong here, that they will not be overawed, and that even the National League’s best can be dragged into uncomfortable territory when the Reds find their rhythm.
Game 3 awaits in Cincinnati.
And after this afternoon, inevitability feels like a fragile thing.

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I mean COME ONNNN! This is what I’m talkin’ about! This is Giants baseball, baby. October, Oracle Park rockin’, and the Giants say “not tonight, not in our house.” A 9–4 win over Washington, series tied at one, and now all the pressure swings right back on the Nationals. Bang!
Let’s start here: the crowd. Absolute zoo. From the first pitch you could feel it — this was not gonna be some quiet, polite playoff afternoon. The Giants fed off it, Washington felt it, and by the time Eury Perdomo hit that first-inning homer, you knew exactly where this thing was headed. One swing, two outs, boom — Giants up 1–0, place explodes, and the tone is set.
And then this lineup — top to bottom relentless. You don’t get a breath. Fuentes? Two homers. TWO! One early, one late, just in case anyone in the building was thinking about getting comfortable. Fields? Doubles all over the place. Campbell, Gonzalez, Wagner — line drives, sacrifice flies, smart baseball. This wasn’t flashy nonsense, this was professional, grind-you-down October offense.
But let’s talk about Tyler Adams, because this is where the game tilts. Two-for-two, three RBIs, works a walk, drives in runs every time Washington thinks they’re hanging around. Catcher setting the tone offensively in a playoff game — that’s back-breaking. That’s demoralizing. That’s Giants baseball.
And on the mound? Ernie Pritchett, thank you very much. Seven innings, no panic, no nonsense. Washington had chances — they always do — but every time they start thinking rally, Pritchett shuts the door. Fly balls, ground balls, keeps the ball in the yard, hands it off clean. Kendrick finishes it, game over, line forms to shake hands.
Now listen — Washington’s a good team. They didn’t fold, they got some runs, Van Cleve’s a tough out, Park can fly, but this game was controlled. It never felt like it was slipping. The Giants had answers all afternoon.
So now we head east, series tied, momentum squarely with San Francisco. You lose Game 1? Fine. You answer back like this? That’s how you announce you’re still very much alive.
And I’ll tell ya right now — Atlanta’s gone. Milwaukee’s gone. The National League door is wide open. And if this crowd, this lineup, and this confidence travel?
Watch out.

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Alright, let’s be honest about what this game was — a mess, an absolute mess early for Boston, and when you spot Tampa Bay that kind of cushion, forget it. You’re not winning that game. You’re just not.
The Rays take it 13–10, series tied at one, and the story starts — and frankly ends — with the first two innings. Jonathan Becker gives up eight runs in two innings. Eight. In a postseason game. You’re dead on arrival. I don’t care how good your lineup is, I don’t care how well you swing it later — you’re chasing the game from the opening frame.
And Tampa Bay did exactly what a 108-win team is supposed to do. They pounced.
Francia homers in the first. Kendrick homers in the first. Mojica hits the three-run shot in the second — and that’s the knockout punch right there. Seven runs by the middle of the second inning, crowd into it, dugout alive, Boston stunned. That’s Rays baseball. They wait for mistakes, and when you give them mistakes, they don’t miss.
Now listen — Boston actually hit. They scored ten runs. They had eleven hits. Croke was good again. Williams continues to mash. Lopez gives you late power. That’s all fine. But here’s the problem: every time Boston scored, Tampa answered. That’s the difference between a good team and a great one.
Mark McDonald set the tone. Two hits, a homer, walks, aggressive baserunning — he dictated the pace of the game. Mojica drove in three. Smith homers late just to remind you who’s in control. Tampa didn’t panic, didn’t rush, didn’t get cute. They just kept playing their game.
Salemi wasn’t dominant, but he was good enough. And that’s all you need when your offense gives you four in the first, three in the second, four in the third. That’s cruise control. The bullpen hiccuped, sure — Hunt gave up some late homers — but the game was never really in doubt.
And here’s the big-picture takeaway: this is why Tampa Bay had the best record in baseball. They absorb punches. They don’t get rattled. They capitalize on errors — Boston made two, and Tampa made them pay immediately.
Now the series shifts to Fenway, tied 1–1, and Boston should feel encouraged by the offense — but concerned, very concerned, about the pitching depth. You can’t afford another start like Becker’s. You just can’t. Against this team? That’s a death sentence.
Tampa Bay did what elite teams do:
they took advantage of opportunity, controlled the game early, and never let go.

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OH COME ON! You gotta be kidding me!
The Cleveland Indians scored THIRTEEN RUNS… THIRTEEN! …and still managed to get run out of Anaheim like a traveling circus that forgot the tent poles. Final score 23–13 Angels, and if you’re wondering whether that’s a typo — IT IS NOT.
Now listen, folks, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. The Tribe jumps out early — boom, three in the first, two in the second, one more in the third — and I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, “Hey! Maybe we’re gonna make a series outta this!”
HAHAHAHAHA. Silly me.
Because then the Angels lineup turned into a video game on rookie mode.
Bobby Marquis?
Good grief. THREE home runs. THREE. The man personally declared war on the Cleveland pitching staff. Every time he came up, I half-expected the Angels to just put the runs on the board automatically and save everybody some time. Five RBIs, three bombs, and I’m pretty sure he’s still circling the bases somewhere in Orange County.
And it wasn’t just him! Billy Horn’s got FOUR hits and FIVE RBIs, Marku’s launching balls into low orbit, Rodriguez is hitting everything that moves — I’ve seen batting practice sessions with less damage.
Meanwhile, Cleveland’s bullpen looked like a rotating door. Hall? Gone. Oceguera? Toast. Pereyra? Blink and it’s four runs. Rodriguez? Don’t blink — it’s worse. Toscanelli? Mercy rule, please! I’m begging!
I ran out of pencil erasers by the sixth inning.
And here’s the cruel joke of it all: the Indians actually hit. Amero homers. Barrios homers. Holloway goes yard. Walters is spraying doubles all over the place. Thirteen runs! Any sane universe, you score thirteen, you win by six!
But not today. Not against Anaheim. Not against a lineup that treats pitchers like speed bumps.
So now the Angels are up 2–0 in the series, heading to Cleveland, and I gotta tell ya — if you’re Tito Francona, you’re not sleeping tonight. You’re staring at the ceiling, hearing the crack of Marquis’s bat echoing in your head like a horror movie soundtrack.
Game Three back at Jacobs Field… and folks…
They’re gonna need a LOT more than optimism.
Preferably about three new pitchers and a time machine.