The Mariners are one game away from the World Series.
And here we are in the second inning: Logan Gilbert is shaky, the infield is fumbling routine grounders, pitch locations are slipping wide, and the Blue Jays have already scored two runs. I feel my hope deflate — a slow, embarrassing whizzle like a well-placed whoopee cushion.
Then it happens: a clean, sharp grab by Eugenio Suárez at third. A beam of competence, a reason to pause the despair. It’s only 0–2, after all. Nothing the big-swinging, homer-delivering Cal Raleigh can’t turn around.
During the last five playoff games, I’ve stayed quiet here. I’ve drifted into memory and metaphor, painting other worlds so I wouldn’t have to feel every pitch in my bloodstream. Baseball has been too much and not enough, all at once.
But today I’m merging the two worlds.
JP Crawford steps up. Four balls later and he un-Velcroes his arm brace like it’s a ritual, drops it on home plate, readying himself to run. He’s walked. There’s a pulse again. Then Canzone steps up and immediately whiffs hard at the first pitch — a frustrated swing that feels like a personal insult. The pitcher is rattled, and we need to exploit that, but instead, Canzone chases another low ball and misses again.
The defeated feeling spreads in my chest like spilled ink. I want pizza. I want to scroll. I want anything that detaches me from this shit.
And then I remember what I’ve been reading: The Godfather. Don Corleone is calm, deliberate, long-term.
“Society imposes insults that must be borne,” he teaches, “comforted by the knowledge that in this world there comes a time when the most humble of men, if he keeps his eyes open, can take his revenge on the most powerful.”
We’re now down by four.
I want to fast-forward — skip to the heartbreak, avoid the hope. We’re probably going to lose. Luckily, we’re already up a game in the series, so this isn’t do-or-die. Not yet.
But The Godfather. Every moment, every choice — it matters.
So I stay. I stay engaged. I stay ready.
Because there’s a chance.
And if we win this…
We’re going to the World Series, baby.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 