Here's how Mariners fans can keep hope alive ahead of ALCS Game 7 vs. Blue Jays

The calendar only says “Game 7,” but everyone in Seattle knows it reads like a personality test. Do you believe this team’s defining trait is survival? Then you’ve seen enough late-inning rallies to know the Mariners tend to play their best when the oxygen gets thin. Do you believe in variance? Then you also know baseball saves its strangest bounces for the night when every pitch is a referendum. Both can be true, and that’s why hope isn’t a posture tonight; it’s a plan.

That plan starts with context, not vibes. Shared by Sarah Langs on X, home-field advantage in winner-take-all games is historically a coin flip — teams hosting are 68–67 all-time, and 30–29 in best-of-seven sets, so nobody should expect the park to do the scoring.

What does travel, though, is how Seattle has won all year: run prevention stacked on top of leverage, a bullpen that turns seven innings into five, and just enough offense to make one swing feel like three. This is the script, and it still fits.

Mariners fans still have reasons to believe heading into ALCS Game 7 vs. Blue Jays

Yes, Game 6 was ugly. The Blue Jays once again made Logan Gilbert look pedestrian, and the defense behind him did him no favors. Now, with everything on the line in a pivotal Game 7, the Mariners will turn to George Kirby to steady the ship and reset the tone.

In his last start against Toronto in Game 3, Kirby endured the worst postseason line by a Mariners starter in franchise history. But that performance isn’t a trend; it’s an outlier. Kirby’s entire profile — elite strike-throwing, efficient sequencing, and an ability to miss barrels when he’s ahead — argues strongly against a repeat showing. 

What matters now is how he adjusts. Expect a quicker hook from the dugout, a possible piggyback plan, and fewer invitations to the heart of the zone early in counts. Kirby thrives on attacking hitters, but in Game 7, he’ll need to balance aggression with guile if he wants to extend his outing and give Seattle a chance to control the tempo.

Seattle is equipped to do exactly that because they didn’t empty the tank. The Mariners didn’t burn Bryan Woo or Andrés Muñoz in Game 6, preserving two of their cleanest pathways to 27 outs. Woo’s ride-the-rails fastball plays up in short bursts if they opt for a bridge role, while Muñoz’s ability to slam the door can reset the strike zone whenever he’s right. Add one more steady option — like Eduard Bazardo, who should be ready if needed — and you’ve essentially reduced the game to a race to the seventh inning, where this club is most comfortable dictating matchups and tempo.

Of course, somebody has to push a run across, and that’s where overdue turns to opportunity. The bottom third has been quiet to the point of whisper, Dom Canzone is 3-for-27 (.111/.143/.111) this postseason, but slumps in October end fast because scouting reports get stale the minute timing returns. One barreled mistake flips his whole series line and changes how Toronto allocates pitches to the top. 

Same goes for Jorge Polanco, who’s been too quiet since Game 2 (1-for-13, 0 RBI). He doesn’t need a three-hit breakout; he needs one swing that finds a gap and forces the Blue Jays to live in the zone against the hitters behind him.

What should fans actually hang their hope on? A few concrete levers. Win strike one more often, and the Blue Jays’ damage profile shrinks; this lineup is far less scary when it has to expand. Protect the ball on defense and keep the free passes off the board; nothing inflates a Game 7 like extra outs. 

And offensively, the approach has to be about creating traffic, and actually cashing in. Stay out of the inning-ending double plays that killed back-to-back bases-loaded rallies in Game 6, and keep the line moving instead of trying to force the big swing. In a series that’s already turned on one pitch more than once, manufacturing just one more high-leverage plate appearance could be the difference between heartbreak and history.

So, no, the ballpark won’t do the scoring, and history says it never really has. But the Mariners don’t need history; they need the version of themselves that’s shown up all year when the math looked bleak. A shorter leash. A longer bullpen. One star stabilizing, one role player finally cashing a mistake. If Seattle plays to that identity for three hours, hope won’t feel like optimism. It’ll feel like inevitability.