In August, San Diego Padres owner Peter Seidler said, “They’re the dragon up the freeway that we’re trying to slay.” They are the Los Angeles Dodgers, and for the past ten baseball seasons, the Dodgers have won the National League title all ten times. This season the Dodgers won a staggering 111 games. As expected, the Dodgers clenched the first-place spot in the National League West finals. No one dared argue with Dodgers manager Dave Roberts when he said that the Dodgers are “winning the World Series in 2022.”
But then the Padres made it to the playoffs, snagging the fifth spot in the finals. In a series of games that most believed would end in crushing defeat for San Diego, the Padres managed to lose only one game, to steal a win on Los Angeles’s own turf, and to win another victory in San Diego. The Padres were one game away from eliminating the Dodgers from the finals entirely.
I didn’t watch these first three games. But when the Padres pulled two unexpected wins over the best team in baseball, I decided to watch the fourth game in the series—and the last, if San Diego could manage a win.
But by the top of the seventh inning, the Dodgers had a three-run lead. With only two innings left, fans (and I) started to accept that the Dodgers had secured a win.
Everything changes in the bottom of the seventh inning. With players on first and third base, Padres catcher Austin Nola nails a pitch into the outfield. The Padre on third base scores the first run.
Then Ha-seong Kim bounces the ball into the infield, which sails past the third baseman’s ear before barreling into the outfield. The Padres score again. Nola is now on third base. Kim dashes all the way to second. A Padres merry-go-round is in motion; they are one point away from tying the game. The camera cuts to the Dodgers manager, Dave Roberts, who looks like someone has swung a brick into his face.
The Padres, on the other hand, are stamping and hooting like a band of middle school boys. Juan Soto, the next batter, knocks a pitch into right field. The Dodgers’ outfielder can’t catch it in time; Soto sprints to first base. The announcers scream, “THIS ONE’S GONNA TIE THE GAME.” Nola scores from third base, and Kim advances to third.
Then the Dodgers manage to strike out the next batter. The Dodger dragon is regaining ground.
It’s up to Cronenworth, the next batter, to rebuild momentum. But then Dave Roberts does the unthinkable: he switches pitchers mid-batter. Alex Vesia—one of the Dodgers’ best—takes the pitching mound. I see Cronenworth cringe. In his career versus Vesia, he’s only managed to hit the ball once out of seven at-bats. And out of those seven times, four resulted in a strikeout. The odds are not in Cronenworth’s favor.
Soto, the Padre at first base, must have known onlookers would be preoccupied with the thrilling case of “Cronenworth v. Vesia,” because he slinks undetected from first base, gunning toward second. Vesia doesn’t even notice as Soto literally skips—sideways like a crab—into second base. Now the Padres have Soto on second and Kim on third—two players in scoring position.
And then Cronenworth nails Vesia’s pitch into center field; the Dodger dragon stumbles to its knees. Kim scores, Soto scores, and the crowd goes bonkers. The camera cuts to Vesia—he’s on the brink of death. The San Diego Padres have taken the lead against the best team in baseball: 5–3.
The camera pans to the manager of the Padres—a thin older man with John Lennon glasses and a dour expression—Bob Melvin. He’s frowning. I laugh aloud.
But then the Dodgers strike out the next Padres batter, and I understand why Melvin is frowning—the Padres have created a brand new ballgame, but it’s still either team’s win.
Undeterred, Padres pitcher Robert Suarez takes charge of the next inning, striking out the next three Dodgers batters in succession—BAM, BAM, BAM. The top of the eighth inning ends. As if on cue, rain begins to pour, blanketing the field in a slick coat.
Not willing to be slain just yet, the Dodgers dragon unleashes its secret weapon—its most reliable pitcher, Evan Phillips—in the bottom of the eighth inning. He ends the inning in only nine pitches.
The top of the ninth inning arrives. The Padres are forced to use one of their weaker pitchers, Josh Hader. Worse, the Dodgers have their best three players slated to bat next: Mookie Betts, Trea Turner, and Freddie Freeman—the top of the Dodgers order. Yet the announcer shrewdly notes, “the Dodgers get their stars here in the ninth, but it takes more than stars” to win a ballgame.
This utterance is like a prophecy. Betts strikes out. Somehow, Turner strikes out as well. The crowd is electric. They stand to their feet, sparking with excitement, as Freddie Freeman saunters to the plate. He is the best batter in the MLB, with 199 hits this season.
All Hader can do is pray and pitch. He stares Freeman down. He pitches. Strike one. He pitches again. Strike two. The crowd are lunging from their seats.
Hader pitches the ball a third time. It careens toward Freeman. He swings—
And he misses the ball.
And for the first time in ten years, the Dodger dragon is slain.
The crowd’s cheers somehow become even louder—tears fall and mingle with the raindrops streaking cheeks and noses; strangers turn to hug strangers, each bearing the gold and brown crest of the San Diego Padres. The camera cuts back to Bob Melvin, the manager. He’s smiling for the first time.
I laugh aloud.