Ourland

“Baseball is simply a nervous breakdown divided into nine innings.” – Earl Wilson, allegedly 

I had no idea, really, what I wanted to write about George Springer’s home run, but as soon as it happened, I knew I had to write something. It was one of those rare moments in sport that was so saturated with emotion, so perfectly demonstrative of why competition continues to exist at all, that it couldn’t be dismissed as mere indulgence. My original plan was to write only about Springer’s home run, because it felt like that was plenty, but then the Blue Jays and Dodgers decided to play one of the greatest World Series of all-time, and it would’ve been a serious injustice to gloss over all of that. Still, the Blue Jays wouldn’t have even been in the World Series without Springer’s home run, so that seems like a fine place to start, before digging into the high drama of the championship round.

Here’s the anatomy of Springer’s moment: It was Oct. 20, Game 7 of the American League Championship Series between the Mariners and Blue Jays. The winner would go to the World Series and the loser would go home after, and this is no small detail, grinding it out over seven months and more than 162 games. Forty-five thousand people, most of whom, I assume, were Canadian, stuffed themselves into Toronto’s Rogers Centre with the hope that their beloved Blue Jays, the only Major League team in Canada, would reach the World Series for the first time in 32 years. To be clear, no one expected the Blue Jays to go this deep into the playoffs: they finished dead-last in their division in 2024, and have infamously underachieved in recent years, despite having a solid core of young(ish) talent. The improbability of the Blue Jays ascension added a layer of intrigue to it all, as did the fact that they lost the first two games of the ALCS, then went down three-games-to-two, only to battle back and force a decisive final game, at home, in front of 45,000 raucous people, who again, I assume were mostly Canadian.

I can’t overstate the importance of the setting: the Rogers Centre is widely considered one of the loudest stadiums in baseball, not only because Canucks know how to get rowdy (eh?), but also because it has a retractable dome, and when that thing is closed, the noise just bubbles and boils in there like a pot of broth on a gas stove. The Rogers Centre has a history of frenzy-inducing postseason home runs, including Jose Bautista’s bat flip in 2015, Edwin Encarnacion’s walk-off in 2016, and, of course, Joe Carter’s classic World Series winner in 1993 (back when the Rogers Centre was known by its superior name: the SkyDome). So when Springer, one of the best postseason hitters of all-time, walked to the plate with two guys on, eight outs to play, and his team trailing 3-1, Blue Jays fans were hoping with cautious optimism that he’d add another chapter to the book of Epic Toronto Home Runs. It was the Blue Jays’ last best hope: if they didn’t score here, who knows if they’d have another chance over the final two innings?

Springer, who is ancient by professional athlete standards (36), had been drilled in the knee by a fastball in Game 5, so it wasn’t clear if he was fully healthy. He went ahead in the count 1-0, causing the crowd to start an anticipatory “LET’S go BLUE jays!” chant. The masses were in the middle of this full-throated chorus when the pitcher, Eduard Bazardo, served Springer a juicy 96-mph fastball right down the middle, which he squared up perfectly. It was instantly clear that the ball was going to leave the yard, and play-by-play announcer Joe Davis (who is consistently great) verbally tracked its trajectory: “high fly ball…left field…Arozarena…WATCHES IT GO!” as the small round thing fell into a sea of reaching hands in the left field stands, and was ultimately grabbed, it should be noted, by a guy wearing a Springer jersey.

Perhaps the most poignant moment of the immediate post-homer madness, however, was what Springer did in the dugout after celebrating with his teammates: he put his hands on a ledge near the equipment shelf, hunched over, and didn’t move for about five seconds, embracing a brief moment of stillness amidst the mayhem. One got the sense that, had he not grounded himself with that small pause, he may have collapsed from sheer emotional overwhelm.

Davis then did what all great play-by-play announcers do: let the ensuing pandemonium speak for itself. Springer sprinted around the bases like a 12-year-old who’d just kissed his first girl, and at one point, the camera panned to a husky Jays fan who was shaking so violently it looked like he might be seizing, save the wide grin pasted on his reddened face. Perhaps the most poignant moment of the immediate post-homer madness, however, was what Springer did in the dugout after celebrating with his teammates: he put his hands on a ledge near the equipment shelf, hunched over, and didn’t move for about five seconds, embracing a brief moment of stillness amidst the mayhem. One got the sense that, had he not grounded himself with that small pause, he may have collapsed from sheer emotional overwhelm. I’m not a Blue Jays fan, but after watching all that, I proudly leaped onto the bandwagon.

I’ve viewed the video of that home run, I don’t know, 30 times now (actually 31, I just watched it again), and it never fails to give me goosebumps. My favorite micro-moment in any epic home run is the sound of the fans right after the ball leaves the bat: there’s the crack of the wood, followed by a split-second delay in which the collective nervous system of the crowd processes what it’s seeing, then, all at once: an eternal roar. The crowd noise for Springer’s home run registered at 110 decibels, which is equivalent, apparently, to someone running a chainsaw three feet away from you, and it seemed to have a bit more treble to it than Bautista’s homer in 2015, which had a guttural, almost orgiastic quality to it, a release of pent-up frustration at a controversial call from the previous inning (I won’t bore you with the details, but if you’re interested, here’s what happened). The reaction to Springer’s home run, on the other hand, had a high-pitched ring of awe to it, of astonishment or even shock, of holy crap, I can’t believe this is happening! This makes sense, given that the implications of Springer’s moment were greater than Bautista’s: his team was losing in the late innings, and his home run saved the Blue Jays’ season, sending them to their first Fall Classic in over three decades. What happened when they got there, though, would be another thing entirely. 

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What does Springer’s home run really mean, though, insofar as any home run can mean anything? One could muse on its geopolitical implications, how it ensured that the only Canadian team in baseball would be playing for a championship during a year in which the United States, or really just Donald Trump, has shown a pointless lack of respect for our friendly neighbors to the north, going as far as to taunt them about becoming our 51st state. And the Blue Jays should feel a distinct sense of national pride about representing the country so admirably during these contentious times, and not in some Canuck sport like hockey, but in America’s own pastime.

Yet the beauty of Springer’s homer, or any sports triumph, for that matter, is that it doesn’t have to be anything more than it is, which is always just a thing that happened in a game. Springer’s shot can be viewed through a geopolitical lens, sure, but it can also be experienced solely within the vacuum of baseball without losing an ounce of its gravity. This is what makes sport so beautifully irrational: nothing that happens, not Springer’s homer, not the Immaculate Reception, not even the United States’ Olympic hockey win over Russia in 1980, has any meaning other than the meaning we bring to it. We know, in the back of our minds, that it doesn’t really matter who wins a silly little game, that no wars will end if our side prevails, that it’s all just manufactured drama, yet we allow ourselves to be carried away on a wave of ecstasy because the feeling itself is the point. 

I see these tiny glimpses of complete spiritual immersion, of Springer taking a pause to collect himself in the dugout, of that Blue Jays fans convulsing with such hotwired ecstasy that it looks like he might combust, and realize that the value of these moments is that they allow us to transcend ourselves, briefly: they lift us out of our worried minds, remove us from our cosmic predicament, fill our consciousness with pure presence, and in doing all these things, make us feel brilliantly alive.

I see these tiny glimpses of complete spiritual immersion, of Springer taking a pause to collect himself in the dugout, of that Blue Jays fans convulsing with such hotwired ecstasy that it looks like he might combust, and realize that the value of these moments is that they allow us to briefly transcend ourselves: they lift us out of our worried minds, remove us from our cosmic predicament, fill our consciousness with pure presence, and in doing all these things, make us feel brilliantly alive. There is, of course, an inverse to all of this ecstasy: the Death Force of an agonizing defeat, which the Blue Jays would have to face, brutally, 12 days after looking like they just might live forever. 

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The majesty of Springer’s home run was, indeed, overshadowed by a cascade of dramatic events in the World Series, including an 18-inning Game 3 in which Freddie Freeman, also 36 years old, hit a walk-off home run at 2:50 in the morning to put Los Angeles on track to become the first team in a quarter-century to win consecutive championships. Freeman’s home run was epic, don’t get me wrong, and it’ll go down as one of the most legendary moments in World Series history, but it didn’t have quite the same thrust for me as Springer’s did. Maybe because it felt like it didn’t mean as much to the Dodgers, who are chronically outstanding to the point of boredom. Maybe it’s because it happened at Dodger Stadium, which, to my ears, sounds like Pebble Beach on a Sunday afternoon compared to the Rogers Centre. Maybe it’s because I really wanted Toronto, and Canada as a whole, to win the damn thing, and use the triumph as a small but pointed middle finger at a certain president who has mocked them since the day he took office. I like Freddie, and I was happy for him, but his homer, which barely cleared the center field wall, didn’t launch me into the stratosphere like Springer’s did, nor did it make me forget about death. I realize this is a high bar to clear: to expect a home run to cure existential dread. So no worries, Freddie, you did what you could, and what you did was remarkable, and also provided some quality foreshadowing for the drama of Game 7. 

The series returned to Toronto in Game 6 with the Blue Jays needing just one win in two games to clinch a title. I was so certain that this was going to happen that I wrote this entire piece as if they’d already won. I wrote about how the Jays were lifted to glory mostly by Vladimir Guerrero Jr., the only native Canadian on the roster, a guy who had one of the greatest postseasons in baseball history and, as a young tyke, used to run around on the field with his dad, Vlad Sr., another Canadian sports legend. I wrote about the motley crew of players who made significant contributions to the championship effort, including Max Scherzer, a 41-year-old future hall of famer with two different color eyes; Trey Yesavage, a 22-year-old rookie pitcher who began the season playing in front of a few hundred fans in Single A; Ernie Clement, a spindly utility guy who set the record for most hits in a single postseason; Addison Barger, who looks like the lead singer of Creed and also hit .480 in the World Series; Alejandro Kirk, a stumpy former Mexican League catcher who’s listed at 5’8” but is probably more like 5’5”; and yes, Old Man Springer, who missed Games 4 and 5 with an injury, but collected five hits over the final two games, even though it looked like he was breaking a rib every time he swung. I wrote all of this with the utmost confidence that Toronto would prove me right, yet my words were as good as trash, because Game 7 was, quite simply, one of the greatest baseball games ever played, and it obliterated my triumphant Blue Jays narrative and forced me to rework everything I’d written. 

The Blue Jays’ unraveling in Game 7 was, frankly, tragic, as much as anything that happens in a sporting event can be tragic. The Dodgers’ Miguel Rojas, a 37-year-old defensive specialist who hadn’t had a hit in a month, came to the plate with one out in the ninth, his team trailing 4-3. The Blue Jays had held a lead since Bo Bichette hit a three-run homer in the bottom of the third, and they were so close to a title they could’ve licked it. Yet Rojas battled, working the count full, then, with a harmless little swing that made it seem like he was just trying to make contact, managed to lift the ball into the left field bleachers, not far from where Springer’s shot had landed almost two weeks earlier. It was the unlikeliest of home runs: Rojas’ first against a right-hander all season, and only his eighth all year. The moment was articulated, once again, by Joe Davis, who shouted: “No way! Miguel Rojas!” which, while lacking the poetry of his “Gibby meet Freddie” call from last year, is undeniably the most fitting thing he could’ve said at that moment.  

Somehow, Rojas’ home run might not have been the worst thing that happened to the Blue Jays in the ninth, which could reasonably be considered the single most devastating inning for one team in any World Series, ever. They loaded the bases with one out in the bottom half, bringing Daulton Varsho to the plate. All Varsho had to do to win the World Series was hit a fly ball deep enough to score speedy pinch-runner Isiah Kiner-Falefa from third, but instead he ripped a grounder to Rojas at second base, who fielded it cleanly but stumbled while standing up. It looked like that tiny hiccup would cost the Dodgers the game, but Kiner-Falefa got a terrible jump off the bag, and Rojas fired an off-balance throw home that beat him by mere milliseconds. The play was reviewed, and for a second there it looked like the call could go either way, considering the catcher, Will Smith, momentarily lifted his foot off home plate. Ultimately, though, the umpire confirmed the ruling on the field: Kiner-Falefa was out, and the game would continue. 

As brutal as it was to be half the length of Kiner-Falefa’s big toe from a title, Varsho’s groundout still might not have been the worst thing that happened to the Jays in the ninth. They were still in a good position to win, even with two outs, considering the next batter was Clement, one of their most reliable hitters. He launched the first pitch he saw to deep left field, and as soon as the ball left his bat, I knew, with the certainty of an terminal idiot, that the game was over: left fielder Kike Hernandez and center fielder Andy Pages had been playing shallow, so they were going to have to cover a lot of (artificial) grass if one of them was going to make the play. Hernandez was galloping like a lost antelope, obviously not tracking the ball, when Pages – miraculously, impossibly – flew into the frame, made the catch, then steamrolled Hernandez onto the warning track. It was, perhaps, the best catch in baseball history, or at least one of the most consequential, and when combined with everything else that happened that inning, added up to one giant nervous breakdown for Toronto fans. 

By the time Smith delivered the knockout blow with a solo home run in the 11th, it felt like an inevitable confirmation that the Blue Jays were doomed. The crowd’s reactions to the homers by Rojas and Smith were a precise photo negative of its reaction to Springer’s home run: all of the joy had been drained from the stadium like pus from a wound, and the place was as painfully silent as a living room after the death of a family dog. It was a bleak example of the downside that comes with placing so much meaning on a silly little game: a thrilling victory makes us forget our existential woes, sure, but a heartbreaking loss is a stark reminder of them, a brutal recognition that everything falls apart. The silence at the Rogers Centre after the Blue Jays lost Game 7 was the sound of 45,000 people collectively realizing that there’s no such thing as destiny, only fickle, random chance. As a drunk Charlie Kelly put it on an episode of It’s Always Sunny: “that’s baseball, baby,” one minute you’re within lickin’ distance of a title, the next you’re crying in the dugout, trying to figure out who cut off your tongue, and how. 

It’s tempting to claim that the majesty of Springer’s home run is diminished because of the Blue Jays’ harrowing defeat, but I don’t think that’s true. Are the greatest moments of our lives any less meaningful even though we die in the end? I’d argue no; when it’s all said and done, we’re just happy to have lived them at all. Springer has secured his spot as a Canadian sports legend, alongside Bautista and Carter, and his homer, when washed in the healing spring of time, will live on as a brilliant example of elation distilled, of life at its most immediate. It’s also given me a small ray of sunshine heading into these desperate winter months: I get sad when it’s cold, so whenever I find myself staring blank-eyed out of a window at the dead grass and naked trees, feeling the sad sap of seasonal depression coagulate in my chest like phlegm, I’ll rewatch that home run, for the 32nd, 50th, 60th time, and let its wild electricity warm me to my dumb little core. Baseball might not mean anything, but that’s exactly why it means so much, especially when it makes you convulse with ecstasy, but also when it completely destroys you, one nervous breakdown at a time.