RED SOX RALLY IGNITES OCTOBER MADNESS: CROCHET’S HEROICS AND YOSHIDA’S DAGGER STUN YANKEES IN GAME 1
In the electric haze of Yankee Stadium’s October spotlight, where the ghosts of baseball’s fiercest rivalry still whisper through the rafters, the Boston Red Sox pulled off a heist that felt like destiny rewritten. Down 1-0 into the seventh inning against a Yankees squad primed for playoff glory, the Sox erupted in a frenzy of small-ball savagery and timely thunder, capping a 3-1 thriller that left the Bronx in stunned silence. This wasn’t just a win in Game 1 of the American League Wild Card Series— it was a declaration. October madness has arrived, and the Red Sox are wielding the torch.
The stage was set for a classic: the 89-73 Red Sox, wildcard interlopers who clawed their way into the dance with a late-season surge, facing off against the 94-68 Yankees, who entered as the hunted favorites with home-field swagger. But on a crisp 77-degree evening under the lights, it was Boston’s ace Garrett Crochet who first seized the narrative, delivering a postseason masterpiece that silenced the 48,000-plus faithful and set the tone for a rally that would echo through Red Sox Nation.
Crochet, the 26-year-old lefty acquired in a blockbuster December trade from the Chicago White Sox—a deal that cost Boston four prized prospects and a long-term extension—arrived in the Bronx with a chip on his shoulder the size of Fenway’s Green Monster. In four regular-season starts against New York that year, he’d posted a stingy 3.29 ERA, fanning 39 Yankees over 27⅓ innings. But this was playoffs. This was pinstripes. And Crochet promised manager Alex Cora he’d “guarantee” a gem during Monday’s workout. He didn’t just deliver; he dominated.
The lanky southpaw from Lafayette, Louisiana, nicknamed “The Beast” by his teammates, took the mound with the poise of a veteran closer. His first inning was a statement: Paul Goldschmidt singled, AL MVP frontrunner Aaron Judge poked a first-pitch single, but Crochet buckled down, striking out Cody Bellinger and inducing a game-ending double play grounder from Giancarlo Stanton on a wicked 98-mph heater. The Yankees, who slugged their way to 94 wins behind Judge’s thunderous bat and a revamped bullpen, must have sensed something ominous. Crochet wasn’t here to flirt with danger; he was here to eviscerate it.
Through five innings, the only blemish was Anthony Volpe’s solo homer to right in the second—a sharp, 102-mph liner that barely cleared the short porch and gave New York a fleeting 1-0 edge. Volpe, the slick-fielding shortstop who’d blossomed into a 20-homer threat, pumped his fist as the crowd roared. But Crochet? He exhaled, adjusted his dip, and locked in. From that point, he retired the final 17 Yankees he faced—a streak unbroken until the eighth—becoming the first pitcher to set down 17 straight Bronx Bombers in a postseason game since Carl Erskine’s 19 in the 1952 World Series. Eleven strikeouts, zero walks, just four hits total. He threw a career-high 117 pitches, his final one clocking 100.2 mph to fan Trent Grisham for his 11th K. “I felt like I could go forever,” Crochet said postgame, spitting tobacco into a water bottle while scrolling Clash Royale on his phone, as if he’d just finished a casual bullpen session.
Across the diamond, Yankees starter Max Fried matched Crochet’s fire with ice. The lefty ace, in his pinstriped playoff debut, danced through six scoreless frames on 102 pitches, scattering four hits and three walks while fanning six. Fried, who anchored Atlanta’s rotation before a midseason trade to New York, had the Red Sox lineup—a motley crew of grinders and young guns—guessing on sliders and changeups. Jarren Duran, Boston’s leadoff sparkplug, flailed at shadows; Alex Bregman, the steady third baseman poached from Houston in the offseason, grounded into a double play. The Yankees clung to Volpe’s homer like a lifeline, their bullpen—bolstered by flamethrowers like Luke Weaver and closer David Bednar—itching to slam the door.
But October baseball is a cruel jester, and the punchline landed in the top of the seventh. Fried retired Duran to open the frame, but Aaron Boone, the Yankees’ skipper, yanked his ace with one out and a runner on first. Enter Weaver, the 2024 redemption story turned 2025 enigma, who inherited a 1-0 lead and promptly watched it evaporate like morning dew.
It started with Ceddanne Rafaela, the 24-year-old Hawaiian outfielder with a cannon for an arm and a free-swinging soul. Down 0-2, Rafaela battled for 11 pitches, fouling off sliders and spitting on balls, drawing a walk that ignited the rally. Up stepped Nick Sogard, a Triple-A call-up who’d spent most of 2025 honing his craft in Worcester. The utility infielder, known more for his glove than his gap power, laced a double to right-center, sending Rafaela to third. Bases juiced? Not yet. But the Bronx was buzzing with unease.
Enter Masataka Yoshida, the unlikeliest dagger in Boston’s arsenal. The 32-year-old Japanese import, signed to a five-year, $90 million deal after a monster NPB career, had endured three seasons of injury-plagued frustration in Boston—hamstrings, obliques, and bench time that tested his quiet resolve. Pinch-hitting for Rob Refsnyder, Yoshida stepped into the box against Weaver’s first offering: a 95.9-mph fastball belt-high over the plate. No hesitation. No overthinking. Yoshida lashed it up the middle for a two-run single, plating Rafaela and Sogard to flip the script. 2-1, Boston. The Red Sox dugout erupted; a contingent of traveling fans along the third-base line chanted “Masa! Masa!” as if summoning a samurai spirit.
It was historic poetry. Yoshida became the first Red Sox pinch-hitter—and the first player in MLB history—to deliver a go-ahead hit on the very first pitch of his postseason career while trailing. “I was ready for a fastball, and that’s what came,” Yoshida said through interpreter Yohei Sato, a sly smile cracking his stoic facade. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since I came here.” Cora, the master tactician who’d orchestrated 2018’s miracle, called it “the turning point.” Weaver, shell-shocked, retired the side, but the damage was irreparable. The Yankees’ pen, so reliable in the regular season, had sprung a leak at the worst possible hour.
The eighth belonged to Crochet’s encore. Back for one more batter after 100 pitches, he fanned Bellinger on a slider that painted the black. Kenley Jansen, Boston’s grizzled setup man, mopped up the frame with two groundouts. Then came the ninth, and oh, what drama. Aroldis Chapman, the 37-year-old Cuban flamethrower and ex-Yankee villain, entered for a four-out save. The bases loaded with none out: three straight singles from Gleyber Torres, Jazz Chisholm Jr., and Volpe. Stanton loomed, his October pedigree (a 2024 World Series hero) threatening apocalypse. But Chapman, mustache bristling, summoned vintage heat—100-plus mph fastballs morphing into unhittable splitters. Strikeout. Flyout to shallow right. And finally, a 101.2-mph dagger to Grisham for the final out. Chapman screamed skyward, pounding his chest as the Red Sox swarmed the infield. Game over. Series lead: Boston, 1-0.
This victory wasn’t born in Fenway’s embrace but stolen in enemy territory, a nod to the 2004 miracle that still scars Yankee souls. The Sox have won eight of the last nine playoff meetings with New York, including a 9-4 regular-season slaughter in 2025 capped by an eight-game streak. Bregman, ever the agitator, added insurance with a ninth-inning RBI double off Bednar, scoring Trevor Story for the 3-1 final. But it was Crochet’s unhittable arsenal and Yoshida’s surgical precision that ignited the fire.
