Game 7 of the World Series — words that instantly crank the pressure to eleven. We don’t get them often, but when we do, everything feels bigger: every pitch, every swing, every heartbeat. Saturday night in Toronto somehow outdid all that.

It was the kind of night that makes you fall back in love with baseball — the tension, the chaos, the random heroes. Dodgers 5, Blue Jays 4; and the Dodgers never led until the 11th. On foreign turf, with a dome shaking like a concert hall and an entire nation backing the other side, they found a way. 

Heart-Stopping Drama: A Game 7 That Lived Up to the Hype

Stars Up Front, Nerves Underneath

On the bump, you had Shohei Ohtani and Max Scherzer — two names that are going to end up with a Hall of Fame plaque. It felt almost unfair, like baseball was flexing its star power for one last night of the year. Ohtani, running on three days’ rest, grabbed the ball because Dave Roberts knew having him pitch meant he’d get the most flexibility with his lineup. Scherzer, 41 and running on stubbornness and muscle memory, became the oldest pitcher ever to start a Game 7.

The tension showed early. Ohtani’s stuff was electric, but his command was a mess. He racked up 42 pitches through two innings, fighting himself the whole way before blowing a 99‑mph heater past Andrés Giménez with the bases loaded to escape the second. Scherzer wasn’t spotless either, giving up plenty of loud contact, but he managed to Houdini his way out of it until his pitch count forced the bullpen to take the wheel.

When the Roof Nearly Blew Off: Bichette’s Blast and Toronto’s Surge

Dave Roberts played the matchup game in the third, putting Vladimir Guerrero Jr. on intentionally after a wild pitch moved a baserunner to third, trying to keep the ball in the yard. That decision immediately backfired when the very next pitch left the yard. Bo Bichette jumped a first‑pitch slider and sent it 442 feet to left, a three‑run thunderclap that shook the building. 3–0, Toronto.

From there, the Jays’ defense put on a clinic. Daulton Varsho laid out to steal an extra‑base hit from Teoscar Hernández. Guerrero Jr. made a diving snag to end the fourth. Even a benches‑clearing scrum in the fourth — sparked when rookie lefty Justin Wrobleski ran a two‑seamer too far in on Giménez — couldn’t rattle them. Toronto had the building, the lead, and the vibe.

The Slow Climb: Survival Runs and One Loud Swing

This wasn’t a Dodgers avalanche—it was a slow, stubborn climb that felt like watching someone chip away at a brick wall with a spoon.

In the fourth, Chris Taylor fought off a two‑strike pitch and blooped a single to right. That sparked a rally that loaded the bases before a deep fly finally got them on the board with a sac fly. No fireworks, just smart situational hitting—Dodger baseball when they’re at their best.

By the sixth, the Dodgers finally pieced together a real inning at the plate — and it started the way good rallies always do: with patience. Mookie Betts battled through a seven‑pitch at‑bat before drawing a walk. Max Muncy followed by shooting a single into right, sending Betts to second and waking up the Dodger dugout. Then Teoscar Hernández chopped one back to the mound, where Chris Bassitt snagged it and fired to second for the force. Betts moved up to third; one out, runners on the corners. Tommy Edman came through with a clean sacrifice fly to center, plenty deep for Betts to tag and score. 3–2. A small dent, but it mattered.

After the Dodgers trimmed it to one, Toronto answered right back in the bottom of the sixth with a bit of insurance — back-to-back doubles to start the inning pushed the lead to 4–2 and kept the crowd in it. For a moment, it felt like momentum had fully swung north of the border again.

Nothing doing in the seventh for either side. Then came the eighth, and Max Muncy delivered the swing that flipped everything back on its head. Rookie right‑hander Trey Yesavage tried to challenge him inside with a fastball, and Muncy crushed it into the right‑field seats. 4–3. A lifeline, and just like that, the Dodgers were breathing again.

The Shot Nobody Expected: Miguel Rojas, Two Outs from Oblivion

Ninth inning. One out. Jeff Hoffman on the mound, the veteran who’d been nails all October. The Dodgers are down to the part of the order you love to see as an opposing fan — bench glue, defense-first type of guys. And here comes Miguel Rojas, 36 years old, who, coming into Game 7, hadn’t recorded a hit since October 1st — a full month of box scores with zeros next to his name. He’s a glove-first guy, the kind you keep around for leadership and late-game defense (which they ended up needing), not lightning. But baseball’s got a funny sense of timing.

He gets a low slider, goes down and gets it. Left field. Gone. Tie game, 4–4. From ice cold to hero in one swing. The guy who had gone thirty days without a hit suddenly became the man keeping a dynasty alive.

In more than a century of World Series baseball, no one had ever tied a Game 7 with a ninth-inning homer. Rojas did it as the No. 9 hitter. That’s the beauty of baseball.

Walking the Tightrope in the Bottom of the Ninth

A tie in the ninth in that building felt like an avalanche waiting to happen, and for a minute it was. Yoshinobu Yamamoto, who had just started the night before for the Dodgers in Game 6, jogged out with two on, one out. He hit the very first batter he faced to load the bases. The place was boiling.

Rojas, fresh off his moment, knocks down a Varsho chopper, nearly stumbles, then throws home — bang‑bang. Force at the plate by inches. If Rojas doesn’t gather clean, if Will Smith doesn't get his toe back on the ground in time, season over.

One batter later, Andy Pages — brought in for defense — took off on a deep fly to the gap, tracked it for what felt like a mile, then ran through Kiké Hernández to pull it down against the warning track. On to extra innings.

Extras: Trading Punches, Surviving Chaos, and Landing the Haymaker

The Dodgers had every chance to finish it in the 10th. They loaded the bases, worked counts, and made Toronto sweat — but a ground ball with the infield in led to a force at home, followed by a ground ball handled by Guerrero Jr. that killed the rally. The Jays had just lived that same nightmare in the ninth, bases loaded, no payoff. Opportunity after opportunity, both sides daring the other to blink first.

Toronto came back up in the bottom half, but Yamamoto was locked in. He worked a perfect three up, three down. No drama, just poise that wins hardware.

Then came the top of the 11th. Two outs, nobody on, dead silence waiting for something to happen. Will Smith got a hanging slider and absolutely demolished it to left field. Dodgers 5, Blue Jays 4 — their first lead of the night, and the first extra‑inning home run in a World Series Game 7, ever. It was the kind of swing that instantly etches itself into highlight reels for decades, made even better because it came from a catcher who’d caught 73 innings in one Series and still had the legs to punish a mistake.

Toronto, to their credit, almost answered right back to keep the game going. Vladimir Guerrero Jr. ripped a leadoff double that had the place shaking again. A bunt moved him to third, and every Dodger fan in the world stopped breathing. Yamamoto bore down and got the next hitter to roll one perfectly to short. Mookie Betts gloved it, stepped on second, and was celebrating before the ball hit Freddie Freeman's glove for the final out.

As if there wasn't enough drama, Clayton Kershaw admitted after the game that if that double play hadn’t been turned, he was likely getting the next batter.

I had my back turned to it. I had no idea we had one out. I was warming up, and then sure enough, double play turned — game over. But I think I might have had the next batter right there.

Imagine that — the franchise legend waiting for one last shot to close it himself. But Yamamoto didn’t let it get that far. That’s how legends are made.

The Dynasty Defined: One Team, One Night, Forever Changed

Dynasties aren’t just about years. They’re about nights like this, when a team with a target and a season full of dents finds a way to walk into someone else’s party and end it. That’s what Los Angeles did in Toronto. That’s why the banner means more than the number on the payroll or the press release in November.