He could feel it — that sickening thud of the ball glancing off his foot, that half-second of silence before Dodger Stadium exhaled into chaos.
All he had to do was pick up a 69-mile-an-hour dribbler and flip it to first.
Instead, he hurried. He spun. He panicked. He fired toward home plate.
The throw sailed high — too high — and somewhere between his release and the backstop, another Phillies season slipped away.
Los Angeles 2, Philadelphia 1. Game 4. Season over.
The Phillies’ pitchers gave them everything they had — and a little more. There was no margin left, not an inch of slack in this game or this series.
After Nick Castellanos doubled home the lone run in the seventh, Cristopher Sánchez immediately faced trouble: two baserunners, one out, and a trip from Rob Thomson to the mound. Out came Jhoan Duran, the closer turned firefighter, to face a lineup built for moments like this.
He intentionally walked Shohei Ohtani to load the bases for Mookie Betts — a calculated gamble by Thomson that unraveled when a fastball ran just off the plate for ball four. The tying run trotted home, and whatever cushion the Phillies had evaporated into the Dodger Stadium night.
It marked the first time in Duran’s career that he forced in a run with a walk.
From there, the bullpen carried the season on fumes.
Matt Strahm turned in a perfect ninth. Then Jesús Luzardo — who was supposed to start a potential Game 5 — came out throwing like a man who understood there might not be one. He blanked the Dodgers in the 10th before running into traffic in the 11th: a Tommy Edman single, a Max Muncy flare, and the kind of jam that finds its way to the next man up.
That man was Orion Kerkering.
Twenty-four years old. A 3.30 ERA across 69 appearances. A right-hander once billed as the future closer after rocketing from Single-A to the majors in 2023.
He’s been effective. Electric, at times. But one flaw has lingered: he hasn’t been great when inheriting runners.
And now, here he was — two outs, runners on second and third. He walked Kiké Hernández to load the bases, then jammed Andy Pages and got the soft comebacker every pitcher dreams of.
He just didn’t finish the play.
For a long moment, Kerkering stood alone on the mound, frozen under the lights. The Dodgers poured out of their dugout, and he just stared at the dirt. Eleven innings of near-flawless pitching had come down to a rush.
“Just keep his head up,” Thomson said later. “He just got caught up in the moment a little bit. Coming down the stretch there, he pitched so well for us. I feel for him because he’s putting it all on his shoulders. But we win as a team and we lose as a team.”
Television cameras caught a few teammates approaching Kerkering as he left the field — a pat on the shoulder here, a quiet word there — the kind of gestures that don’t change the result but mean everything in the moment.
“You show up until the game forgets what happened,” he told him.
It wasn’t a speech. It was a breadcrumb. Something to follow through the winter.
Kerkering wasn’t the only reason the Phillies were packing bags.
They scored once all night — a Castellanos double in the seventh that barely dented the scoreboard. Five pitchers combined to hold Los Angeles to two runs over eleven innings. That’s usually enough to keep a season alive.
Except when it isn’t.
So Kerkering became the face of the heartbreak, even if he wasn’t the lone cause of it.
“Just a bad throw,” he said quietly. “It hit off my foot, and I thought J.T. was the faster play. It wasn’t. That’s on me.”
He paused. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe start with a wall and a tennis ball.”
In a few months, that ball will stop bouncing around in his head.
He’ll throw another bullpen. Another comebacker.
And maybe next time, in some future October, he’ll make the same play — this time without the rush, without the noise, with everything learned from one impossible night in Los Angeles.
Because that’s what baseball does.
It breaks your heart, teaches you patience, and somehow hands you the ball again.
For a long moment, Kerkering stood alone on the mound, frozen under the lights. The Dodgers poured out of their dugout, and he just stared at the dirt. Eleven innings of near-flawless pitching had come down to a rush.
“Just keep his head up,” Thomson said later. “He just got caught up in the moment a little bit. Coming down the stretch there, he pitched so well for us. I feel for him because he’s putting it all on his shoulders. But we win as a team and we lose as a team.”
Television cameras caught a few teammates approaching Kerkering as he left the field — a pat on the shoulder here, a quiet word there — the kind of gestures that don’t change the result but mean everything in the moment.
“Don’t carry it alone,” Harper said. “We’ve all got our plays.”
Nick Castellanos added his own version of reassurance. He didn’t revisit 2022 or talk about redemption. He talked about showing up, about how the only way through a night like this is forward.
Nick Castellanos added his own version of reassurance. He didn’t revisit 2022 or talk about redemption. He talked about showing up, about how the only way through a night like this is forward.
“You show up until the game forgets what happened,” he told him.
It wasn’t a speech. It was a breadcrumb. Something to follow through the winter.
Kerkering wasn’t the only reason the Phillies were packing bags.
They scored once all night — a Castellanos double in the seventh that barely dented the scoreboard. Five pitchers combined to hold Los Angeles to two runs over eleven innings. That’s usually enough to keep a season alive.
Except when it isn’t.
So Kerkering became the face of the heartbreak, even if he wasn’t the lone cause of it.
“Just a bad throw,” he said quietly. “It hit off my foot, and I thought J.T. was the faster play. It wasn’t. That’s on me.”
He paused. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe start with a wall and a tennis ball.”
In a few months, that ball will stop bouncing around in his head.
He’ll throw another bullpen. Another comebacker.
And maybe next time, in some future October, he’ll make the same play — this time without the rush, without the noise, with everything learned from one impossible night in Los Angeles.
Because that’s what baseball does.
It breaks your heart, teaches you patience, and somehow hands you the ball again.
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