It took nearly five hours, two seventh-inning stretches, and one salmon that refused to lose, but the Mariners finally gave Seattle a reason to breathe.

When Jorge Polanco’s grounder rolled through the right side of the infield and J.P. Crawford came home, T-Mobile Park didn’t cheer. It erupted.

I was sitting in the fourth row of Section 116 on Friday, Oct.10; close enough to see the yarn on the ball as it skipped into history. Crawford didn’t sprint; he didn’t slide. He simply slowly stepped on home plate, almost mercifully — exhaling all at once, as did we all. A quarter-century of waiting, gut-wrenching heartbreak and “maybe next years” disappeared in one perfect moment. The Mariners finally did it. By a score of 3-2, they tamed the Detroit Tigers and are now just one series win away from playing in the first World Series in franchise history.

That night, I endured a marathon that only baseball could conjure. It was strange, beautiful and utterly exhausting in all the right ways. It wasn’t just long; it is now the longest winner-take-all game in 122 years of Major League Baseball.

By the 14th inning, the game required a second seventh-inning stretch. The crowd of 47,035 people stood to their feet once again, more out of reflex than tradition.

In that moment, time lost all meaning. The anxiety of it all was crippling. Each pitch felt heavier than the last, every foul ball struck a nerve and all conversations stopped. The entire stadium held its collective breath.

The Mariners needed a hero. And, naturally, it turned out to be a fish.

During the second Salmon Run Mascot of the evening, which took place before the bottom of the 15th inning, an unlikely hero emerged. Humpy, the lovable pink underdog of a salmon, who had lost every race all season, finally crossed the finish line first.

To my knowledge, it wasn’t shown on television, but inside the stadium, there was a palpable shift. When Humpy broke through the tape, the tension in the building cracked.

People leapt from their seats: shouting, laughing, pointing at the big screen in a moment of childlike joy. For the first time in hours, the air felt light.

Ten minutes later, the Mariners finally walked it off.

I grew up with baseball long before I ever saw it live. As a little slugger, I’d stay up on the East Coast, fighting sleep just to see Ken Griffey Jr. swing a bat. I would spend entire summers with my brothers playing what we called “Ken Griffey Baseball” on Super Nintendo. The screen flickered on our tube TV as we played game after game, feeling like baseball could last forever. On Friday, Oct. 10, my 41st birthday, it almost did.

By the time Polanco’s grounder left the infield, every superstition came to light. It appears the baseball gods had finally given Seattle a much-deserved respite.

All around, strangers were hugging and jumping together, shouting with everything they had left. The feeling of pure joy and pure exhaustion all at once, with five hours and 24 years of tension finally giving way. In that moment, everything felt weightless.

That’s the magic of baseball. It is truly timeless. In one moment, you’re an adult in the stands, the next, you’re a kid again, staying up too late, believing anything can happen.

And on nights like Friday, it actually does. And my baseball soul is full.