By AJ Mazzolini for The I-5 Corridor

TORONTO – So, this is joy.

As I swam upstream through the tide of devastated Blue Jays supporters flooding toward the exits, I recognized fan after fan. Not names and faces but in deadened expressions, drooping posture and cutting profanities. How many times had I cursed the baseball heavens that same way? Nearly 30 years as a Mariners fan, you get used to being on the wrong end of the ninth inning, but it instills an appreciation for a moment pulled out of the shade and into the light.

And oh, how warm that glow feels.

Mere moments had passed since one of the most improbable comebacks in baseball’s long postseason history Saturday night. An 8-1 deficit turned come-from-way-behind 10-9 victory left me skipping down the Rogers Centre concourse in Toronto, bouncing and bounding like the 12-year-old I was the last time this Seattle team found its way into the playoffs.

Then there I was — there we were — a thousand Mariners faithful far from home but right behind the visiting dugout celebrating together. We hugged strangers and slapped hands on each other’s backs, the same ones embroidered by the Ghosts of Christmas Past. Along with my well-worn Hernandez, there was Northwest-Green Seager, sported proudly by a father holding up his little boy to see over the crowd. And an XL all-star Cruz edition, fitting for that boomstick bat larger than life some days. Even an Ackley and Smoak, who no doubt found each other through some divine exercising of long-lost demons.

Like the eponymous jerseys themselves, their namesakes never glimpsed a postseason contest as part of this battle-bludgeoned franchise. On this night though, they were all Mariners again.

AJ Mazzolini @ajmazzolini

LFG!!!! GoMs forever

12:37 AM ∙ Oct 9, 2022

In the 11 years since I took my first job in sportswriting in the far-flung cowboy town of Pendleton, Oregon, I’ve made the same joke every year with my bosses: “Hey, don’t forget. I’ve got to take time off in October when the Mariners make the World Series.” We’d smile and nod, sometimes facetiously outlining a few aspirational details the way you do when thinking about winning the lottery.

After a playoff drought old enough to drink, I was ready to settle for any taste of postseason action this year though. So days before Seattle booked its ticket to the second season, I was already buying mine. Three of them to be exact.  My virtual wallet was stuffed full of e-tickets to games I knew I’d never see. Next to the pair of nosebleeds in Toronto — the get-ya-in-the-door type fare — I snapped up seats in Seattle and Cleveland as well. Just in case. My heartwarming and heart-wrenching team was playing meaningful October baseball. I’d be damned if I was going to miss it.

A fiscally responsible strategy? Perhaps not, though I maintain Tampa’s lack-of-a-fanbase is to blame for killing my resell value in Cleveland. In the grand scheme, I’ve probably spent more on single-game beers in The Pen than I lost here. Hell, I would have paid double knowing what was waiting in Toronto.

The result was twenty-one years of pent-up frustration reborn as jubilation. Watching Luis Castillo’s heater dance through the zone Friday wiped away years of no-namers plugged into the middle of a feeble M’s rotation. Cal Raleigh’s blast down the right-field line erased oh so many painful seasons of an inept offense repeatedly letting down King Felix. And the rally, oh God the rally! Shades of the Refuse to Lose years, but this time coming from a team too young and naïve to know that down seven runs to a juggernaut offense you should be dead in the water.

Instead, we live to play again. No matter the outcomes in the days or weeks to come, this moment will remain perfect. It’s a reminder of what drew us to this game in the first place; the awe of being a Northwest kid watching our heroes round third and head for home in a beat-up dome down on the edge of the Sound.

Joy.

And, hey who knows? Maybe it’s finally time to cash in that late-October PTO bet. After a day like Saturday, nothing feels impossible anymore.

Go Ms.

— AJ Mazzolini

AJ Mazzolini likes to say he’s a recovering sportswriter from Great Falls, Montana living in Nashville, but my guy still has quite the fastball. Follow him on Twitter at @AJMazollini.