National Baseball League

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🎙️ [Bob Uecker voice — classic, dry wit, Midwest charm, and a dash of self-deprecation:]

Well folks, the Twins finally said, “Enough’s enough!” After getting bounced out of the playoffs the past two seasons quicker than my fastball back in ’64, Minnesota flipped the script and punched their ticket to the Division Series with a 6-1 win over the White Sox. And let me tell ya—it was almost as fun as a cheese curd eating contest at the state fair.

Now, for those keeping score at home—and if you are, you might need help—this game was all about Ethan Holtzen. Two dingers! Six RBI in the series! He hit .571, and I’m not talkin’ about slugging percentage, I mean he really hit .571. That’s not just hot, that’s “don’t touch the steering wheel in July” hot. He also had a slugged an incredible 1.429 and had an OBP of .667!

Holtzen’s first homer? Solo shot in the second. His second? A two-run cannonball in the eighth. He even remembered to touch all the bases—now that’s a pro. Guy was seeing beach balls out there.

Now I know the Twins haven’t sniffed October success since 1914, but this crew? They look locked in. I haven’t seen Minnesota hit like this since I tried to drive through a snowstorm to call a Brewers game and ended up in North Dakota.

Meanwhile, the White Sox bats were quieter than me during a root canal. One run, nine hits, left seven men on base… and I gotta say, it wasn’t pretty. By the ninth inning, their dugout had more tension than my last marriage.

And you gotta hand it to Danny Bowers—Twins starter, seven shutout innings, struck out seven, walked one. I haven’t seen that kind of control since I tried to parallel park in front of County Stadium back in ’83—and that didn’t go well.

The crowd at Target Field was fired up. Over 39,000 in the seats! And only a handful left early—probably trying to beat traffic, or maybe avoid me singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame one more time.

So now it’s on to Seattle for the Twins. And if they keep hitting like this? Well, they might be bringing back memories of those old championship teams—ya know, the ones that played before radios were invented.

Until next time, folks… remember: baseball’s a funny game. One day you’re on top, the next day you’re getting shelled and wondering why your cleats are full of sunflower seeds.

Back after this.

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1917 Division Series

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🎙️**[Stephen A. Smith voice — emphatic, booming, theatrical, and unapologetically dramatic]**

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...

Let me tell you something right now... the New York Mets came into Citi Field, GAME ONE of the Division Series, and handled their business like grown MEN! You hear me?! Not boys. Not rookies. Not deer in the headlights. GROWN. MEN.

Luke Peters?! My brother, take a bow. SEVEN innings. THREE hits. Gave up just TWO runs. Struck out five. Walked four—but let me tell you something: he bent, but he did NOT break. And that’s the mark of a pitcher with ICE in his veins. A man who stood tall on the mound with the weight of the city on his back, and said: “Not today.”

Now let’s talk about that Cincinnati Reds offense for a second. What did I see out there?! Four hits. Two runs. ZERO life after the first inning! They started hot, yes—but then? NOTHING. You’re tellin’ me a lineup with Soto, Ojeda, and Liotta can’t get a single man across the plate in the final EIGHT innings? That is a disgraceful performance. You got fans flying in from Ohio, spending their hard-earned money, and that’s what you give ‘em? Two runs and a whole lotta disappointment?! COME ON!

Now back to the Mets. We gotta talk about T. Tamura. Three hits. A solo shot in the sixth. Just went up there and said, “Yeah, I’m gonna take your little fastball and put it where the sun don’t shine.” That was a grown man swing. And then... Brubaker follows it up with a bomb of his own in the seventh?! That ball is still orbiting Queens. Somebody call NASA!

Adam Black? Didn’t light up the stat sheet, but he delivered in the fifth with a clutch RBI single. That’s a professional at-bat. That’s what it means to come through when it matters.

And don’t get me started on the bullpen—Moran? Ice cold. Two innings. One hit. Game over.

Listen, I’m not sayin’ this series is over... BUT IF CINCINNATI DON’T WAKE UP AND START PLAYIN’ LIKE THEY BELONG ON THE FIELD WITH THESE NEW YORK METS?! This thing is gonna be over faster than your uncle’s Wi-Fi during a thunderstorm!

Game Two is tomorrow. The Reds better regroup, refocus, and REACT—because if they don’t? They’ll be watching the rest of this postseason from a couch somewhere in Kentucky!

I’M JUST SAYIN’.

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Dramatic Win for World Series Champion Giants

[Duane Kuiper voice — steady, warm, and storytelling with a touch of wonder]

Well folks... if you like postseason baseball, this was one of those games. We had wind blowing out to left, fans on their feet from the first pitch to the final swing, and everything you'd expect from October baseball at Oracle Park. And when the dust settled... the Giants came out on top. 9–8. In 10 innings. They now lead the series one game to none.

Now let’s take you through it.

Right off the bat—literally—Philadelphia came out swinging. Two runs in the first inning off Sam Beeman, including a two-run homer from Vince Brown. And let me tell you, Brown had himself a day. A triple, a homer, got hit by a pitch, took a walk… you might as well call that the cycle, just without the single. The man was everywhere.

But the Giants, as they’ve done so many times before, did not panic.

In the third— Moser. A two-run homer to bring the crowd to its feet. Just like that, it’s 6–3. And we’ve got ourselves a ballgame.

Then came the back-and-forth. Philly got four in the third, Giants chipped away in the fourth, one more in the seventh. But here’s the big moment...

Bottom of the ninth, two outs, Giants trailing by two. C.J. Rudeseal steps up to the plate... and bang! A two-run double. Tie game. Crowd’s going nuts. I mean, you could feel it in your chest.

Fast forward to the tenth... two outs again. Ivan Ramos comes up. Remember, this guy had an error earlier in the game. But baseball’s funny like that—it gives you a chance to write a different ending. And he does. Lines a single into left. Walk-off. Ballgame. Giants win it, 9–8.

And how about the bullpen? Mike Eldridge comes in for the tenth, nails it down with some help from his defense, and picks up the win. That’s what it’s all about.

You want postseason drama? You got it. Game 1 goes to the Giants. Game 2 is tomorrow. Same place, same time. You just hope it’s half as good as this one.

So long, everybody.

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[Bob Costas voice – elegant, articulate, measured, nostalgic]

On a crisp October afternoon in Baltimore, with the wind gently brushing across Oriole Park at Camden Yards and autumn’s edge just beginning to color the trees beyond the right field wall, the 1917 Division Series opened not with fireworks, but with quiet excellence.

This was not a game marked by towering home runs or late-inning chaos, but rather, one run—scored in the bottom of the very first inning—stood alone as the difference. A 1–0 victory. A minimalist’s masterpiece. And for the Baltimore Orioles, a statement of poise and precision.

The story of the day, unequivocally, was Sal Cantu.

In an era—and in a postseason—so often driven by power and spectacle, Cantu delivered something more rare: seven innings of silence. The left-hander tamed the Yankees’ formidable lineup with craft and command. No flash. Just groundouts, fly balls, and a steady rhythm that mirrored the deliberate pacing of a string quartet. He allowed just three hits over those seven frames, walking two, striking out none. There were no exclamation points—just periods. Finality.

In support, the Orioles’ bats didn’t do much—but they didn’t need to. After Cantu set the tone, Jimmy Hyland stepped in during the bottom of the first, grounded out to the right side, and did his job. A run scored. Carlos Alfonso, who had doubled earlier in the inning, crossed the plate. That was it. That was the game.

Credit, too, to Luis Ortiz, the Yankees starter. Seven innings, one run, four walks, three strikeouts. The 22-year-old right-hander was magnificent, but on this day, he was outdueled. It was, quite simply, one of those afternoons where the margin of error was a whisper.

From there, Alex Jeoffrey took the baton for Baltimore and held the Yankees at bay over the final two innings, scattering two hits, striking out three, and collecting the save. Calm, composed, clinical.

And while many will glance over the box score and see a 1–0 game with little to remember, those in attendance—over 43,000 strong—witnessed a different kind of drama. The type that unfolds pitch by pitch. The kind of game that pays homage to the sport’s subtler virtues. Tension. Timing. Stillness.

Game 2 awaits, with the Yankees hungry to respond. But tonight, Baltimore holds a 1–0 series lead, thanks to a pitcher’s quiet brilliance and the lonely, beautiful solitude of a single run.

I'm Bob Costas.

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[Tony Kornheiser voice – sarcastic, sharp, a little exasperated, a little amused]

Okay, so let me get this straight. It’s Game 1 of the Division Series. You’ve got the Minnesota Twins—who won 100 games, might I add—rolling into Seattle to face the Mariners, who themselves won 106. You’re thinking fireworks, right? Something dramatic. Something memorable. Maybe a slugfest. Maybe a walk-off. You’re thinking postseason baseball, baby!

And what do you get?

Crickets.

You get a 3–0 Mariners win that felt more like a two-hour nap than a playoff opener. I mean, it’s not that it wasn’t good baseball, it’s just that it was... it was broccoli. It was fiber. It was good for you, but nobody’s waking up tomorrow screaming about fiber.

Let’s talk about Julio Morales for a second. Eight innings. No runs. Seven hits. A smooth 89 pitches. Guy probably could’ve gone nine but, God forbid we let a starting pitcher finish a game in 1917. What is this, 1910?

He was great. He was terrific. He was boring. That’s the point. He sliced through the Twins lineup like a hot knife through butter. You’d think the Twins might fight a little—scratch out a run, cause some havoc—but no. Just… eight singles and a sigh.

And can we talk about Minnesota’s baserunning? They had two triples! Two triples! That’s like finding a working pay phone—and they did nothing with them. Nothing! They couldn’t move a guy 90 feet if the base path was downhill. You’d think someone was out there with a stop sign and a whistle yelling, “DON’T SCORE!”

Meanwhile, Seattle just methodically pecked away. One run here, one run there, a Josh Freeman single, a McCall homer, a Welch homer—bam, bam, we're done here. It’s like they ran a tutorial on “How to Win Without Breaking a Sweat.”

And the fielding? Double plays everywhere. I counted six between the two teams. At one point I thought I was watching an infield defense drill at Spring Training. It’s like they were competing to see who could hit into the most well-turned 4–6–3s.

Bottom line: Seattle wins Game 1. Minnesota looks like they overslept. Morales shoves. Freeman and the gang scratch out enough. Nobody makes a peep. Game over.

If you’re the Twins, you better show up tomorrow with some runs and a pulse. Otherwise, Seattle’s gonna lull you into winter while sipping chamomile tea.

I’m Tony Kornheiser. That’s the show.