WASHINGTON – From the bullpen beyond left field, standing in shin guards, his mask propped on his forehead, sweating from a decent night’s work, Steve Cilladi focused on the figure walking toward him. This, Cilladi concluded, must be the next man up. He knew the walk – head bent forward, eyes a yard or two in front of his feet, a glove in one hand, his other hand curled in a light fist, his gait heavy – the one he’d seen so many dozens of times, only before games. This could only be one guy. Cilladi lowered his mask.

Game 5 of the National League Division Series was headed into its fifth hour. The Washington Nationals played furiously from a run behind. The Los Angeles Dodgers propped their closer, Kenley Jansen, in front of that lead with none out in the seventh inning and the potential tying run at first base. He’d pitched through the heart of the Nationals’ order in the seventh, 21 pitches in all, then passed his manager on the way into the dugout and said, “Don’t take me out, Doc. Don’t take me out. I got this thing.”

Jansen pitched the eighth inning, too. Sixteen more pitches, still holding down a 4-3 lead, still rearing up with his cut fastball, sometimes straining to touch 97 mph, sometimes mustering but 92, always thinking, “Don’t take me out. I got this thing.”

Nationals Park was awash in red. Many of the nearly 44,000 could not be convinced to sit, or to quiet down, or to run for the last Metro out of the Navy Yards. Losers twice here, in the division series, in the past four years, the Nationals were different this time. They were together, and better, and led by a man who knew the way. No, the people would stand and scream and wait on this victory into the fifth hour, wait on this Kenley Jansen to crack, wait on Harper or Werth or Murphy or somebody to crack him.

In the dugout, Clayton Kershaw turned to his pitching coach, Rick Honeycutt.

“Is the plan for Kenley to go three?” he asked.

“Right now,” Honeycutt said, “that’s the plan.”

“I feel good,” Kershaw said.

“Absolutely not,” Honeycutt said. “Absolutely not.”

Kershaw, about the best thing to happen to the Dodgers ever, had thrown 110 pitches two days before, in Los Angeles. And 101 four days before that. He’d done his part. The Dodgers, losers twice here, in the division series, the past two seasons, would win or not with the other 24. They were together, and better, and led by a new man they hoped would know the way.

Kershaw turned away. Honeycutt watched him approach Dave Roberts, who six hours before had been asked if Kershaw could perhaps get a batter or two in Game 5. He said absolutely not.

“I appreciate it,” he told Kershaw. “No way. No way.”

“I feel good,” Kershaw said. “It’s my side day.”

When Honeycutt saw Kershaw again, he – Kershaw – had changed into his spikes. He’d traded his hoodie for a warm-up jacket. Jansen, resting between innings, noticed Kershaw in the tunnel, noticed something different.

“Wait a minute,” he said to himself, “am I dreaming?”

Kershaw left the dugout. Before he did, Roberts told him, “You go down there and throw. If it gets to Murphy, you got him.”

“If you need me,” Kershaw said, “I’ll be ready.”

He walked diagonally, across a corner of left field. The crowd recognized him, knew what might follow, and booed. Cilladi, the bullpen catcher, was up in the catching rotation. He watched Kershaw approach.

“I thought it was a little bit eerie,” he said.

There was nothing urgent in any of it. Not in Kershaw’s stroll across the outfield. Not in his entrance into the bullpen. Not in the way he removed his jacket, or stretched his arms, and torso, and legs. Not in anything he said, because he said nothing, only accepted a baseball and pawed briefly at the mound. Cilladi crouched behind the plate, set up for a fastball on the corner, and Kershaw hit the mitt.

“He may have missed his spot maybe three times as he was getting loose,” Cilladi said. “The ball was just, I don’t know how to explain it. It was hard. Heavy. Like nothing I’d seen.”

Kershaw had made a relief appearance in 2008, his rookie season. Another in 2009. Once, in the minor leagues, he’d registered a save. That was in 2006. Rookie ball. His catcher that day was a young, bulky kid learning the position, name of Kenley Jansen.

Two days after throwing 110 pitches, Clayton Kershaw got the final out in Game 5 of the NLDS for the Dodgers. More

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