National Baseball League

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Cowherd:
Alright—this is one of those games where you stop pretending momentum is abstract. This was baseball on espresso. Twenty-two to eighteen, extra innings, records falling, and when the dust finally settles, Tampa Bay is up 3–0 in the ALCS and one win away from something this franchise has never done.
And that’s the part you can’t escape: Houston scored 18 runs, got 24 hits, had stars everywhere… and still lost. That’s not bad luck anymore. That’s a pattern.
Costas:
It was excess in every direction—runs, swings, pitching changes, emotional turns—but the defining element was inevitability. Every time Houston surged, Tampa Bay absorbed it. And then, crucially, answered. Baseball often rewards the team that can reassert itself after chaos, and tonight that team was unmistakably the Rays.
Eric Crismond authored one of the most extraordinary postseason performances in league history. Three home runs. Eight runs batted in. Five runs scored. In an extra-inning playoff game. Those numbers don’t just win games—they rewrite record books.
Cowherd:
And here’s the thing, Bob—Crismond was the headliner, but this wasn’t a one-man show. This was depth bullying star power. You get Santiago Macario off the bench in the tenth inning, cold, one swing, three-run homer. That’s October cruelty. That’s when you realize one team has answers everywhere and the other is searching the bullpen like it’s a clearance rack.
Houston’s big bats showed up. Dusty Berthiaume, Josh Curtis, Xander Garcia, Mike Noble—great nights, real production. But every time they looked up, Tampa Bay was already circling the bases again.
Costas:
There’s a particular sting in losses like this. Historically, teams that score this many runs and lose don’t simply feel defeated—they feel disoriented. Houston did almost everything right offensively. Their failure wasn’t effort or talent. It was timing, containment, and an inability to land the decisive blow.
Meanwhile, Tampa Bay survived a disastrous start from their pitching staff, stabilized just enough, and trusted that their offense would eventually overwhelm the night. That confidence is not accidental. It’s earned over the course of a season—and now, a postseason.
Cowherd:
And zoom out for a second. Tampa Bay didn’t sneak into this series. They didn’t steal one early. They’ve controlled it. Three wins. Three different scripts. Blowout, grind, absolute insanity. That tells you they’re not matchup-dependent—they’re identity-dependent.
Houston’s playing great baseball. Tampa Bay’s playing inevitable baseball.
Costas:
If history is any guide, a 3–0 deficit is less a hurdle than a verdict. The Astros must now do something no team in this league has ever done. Tampa Bay, on the other hand, stands ninety feet from history, needing just one more win to secure their first World Series appearance.
Game 3 will be remembered for its spectacle. The series, however, may be remembered for its clarity.

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Cowherd:
Alright—this wasn’t a baseball game, this was a controlled burn. Twenty-three to seventeen, leads disappearing, records falling, and when it finally ended, Milwaukee walked out of Busch Stadium having done the one thing they had to do: they punched back.
Series tied 2–2. Momentum reset. And the reason we’re saying that starts with one name—Jason Gonzalez.
Vin Scully:
You know, every so often the game gives you a moment that feels almost poetic. A veteran, forty-one years old, standing in the middle of a storm of noise and swings and rallies… and reminding everyone that timing never truly ages. Jason Gonzalez didn’t just hit three home runs—he steadied the night. Every time the Cardinals leaned forward, he leaned back just enough to keep Milwaukee standing.
Five hits. Five runs. Five driven in. It was as though the scoreboard had to keep asking him for permission to change.
Cowherd:
And Vin, this matters beyond one game. Milwaukee had to prove something tonight. They’d lost heartbreakers, they’d watched St. Louis win the dramatic endings, and you could feel it—another loss here and this series tilts permanently. Instead, the Brewers said, “Fine. You want chaos? We’ll outlast you.”
This was star power plus depth. Gonzalez headlines it, sure—but Occhipinti delivers the go-ahead single, Escobar’s flying around the bases, Rivera keeps the pressure on. This wasn’t desperation. This was force.
Vin Scully:
St. Louis had moments—many of them. Four runs here, four runs there. The crowd never truly left the game. But baseball can be unforgiving when you ask your pitchers to keep returning to the mound after hope has already been spent.
There’s an old feeling you get in games like this—when both benches know the next swing could change everything, and it keeps happening. Milwaukee simply had more answers. And tonight, their answers arrived louder.
Cowherd:
Here’s the bigger picture: the Cardinals are still dangerous. Their lineup showed again they can score with anyone. But Milwaukee reminded everyone why they earned this matchup in the first place. They’re not just disciplined—they’re resilient. They don’t need the game to be clean. They just need it to be theirs at the end.
And now? Best-of-three. That’s it. No more math.
Vin Scully:
And that, of course, is where the beauty lives. Three games to decide a pennant. The noise will get louder. The moments will get smaller. And somewhere in all of it, the game will ask again—who is ready when it matters most?
Tonight, that answer wore Milwaukee across the chest.

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Tampa Bay Rays: 1933 American League Champions (1st pennant)

Colin Cowherd:
Alright—this is what inevitability looks like. Tampa Bay didn’t sneak into the World Series. They didn’t luck their way there. They marched. Four games. Four wins. Different scores, same result. Fifteen to nine in the clincher, and now the Rays are one of those teams we stop calling “nice story” and start calling problem.
Because here’s the thing: you don’t sweep a lineup like Houston’s by accident. You do it because you’re deeper, calmer, and frankly—you expect to be there.
Mike Francesa:
This was no fluke. Not even close. The Rays controlled this series from the very first inning of Game 1. Houston hit. Houston fought. Houston scored runs. None of it mattered. Tampa Bay answered every single time.
Look at this game—fifteen runs, sixteen hits, contributions up and down the lineup. This wasn’t one guy carrying them. This was a professional dismantling. And if you’re Houston, you gotta live with it. You ran into a team that was simply better prepared.
Chris Russo:
Mike, that’s exactly it! This wasn’t tight! This wasn’t “one bad inning!” Tampa Bay just kept coming at you. You’d blink—boom, two-run double. You’d settle in—home run. You think you’ve got momentum—nah, stolen base, sac fly, another rally.
And Crismond again! This guy owned the series! MVP, no debate, no argument. Every big moment, he’s standing right in the middle of it like he rented the place!
Bob Costas:
What makes this pennant so compelling is not just the sweep, but the manner in which it unfolded. Tampa Bay never appeared hurried. Even in games that swelled into chaos—high scores, early deficits, late pressure—they remained structurally sound.
Eric Crismond embodied that poise. His numbers leap off the page, yes, but it was his presence that defined the series. He was the axis around which everything turned. The Rays did not merely win four games—they imposed an identity.
Cowherd:
And now zoom out. Small-market team. No noise. No drama. Just execution. This is how modern winners are built—versatility, patience, speed, and situational hitting. They don’t panic. They don’t chase headlines. They chase outs.
You don’t know who they’re playing yet—but trust me, whoever it is? They’re not thrilled about it.
Francesa:
This is historic for the franchise, and it’s earned. First pennant. Clean sweep. You couldn’t ask for a clearer statement. Tampa Bay belongs on the biggest stage now.
Russo:
And the scary part? They’re loose! They’re smiling! They look like they’re just getting started!
Costas:
The Rays will wait now, watching the National League resolve itself. But history has already been written here. For the first time, Tampa Bay stands as an American League champion—four wins from a title, and no longer chasing legitimacy.
They have it.

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1933 ALCS summary

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Colin Cowherd Recap
“Okay, let’s stop pretending this was ‘well-played baseball.’ This was a psychological experiment.”
St. Louis goes up 11–1 in a pivotal NLCS Game 5, at home, crowd rocking, champagne practically chilling in the clubhouse. And what do they do? They spend the next four innings lighting that lead on fire.
This is what I always talk about: talent vs. discipline. The Cardinals had the talent early. Milwaukee had the persistence late. And here’s the key—great teams don’t panic when the script flips.
Milwaukee clawed back. Slowly. Relentlessly. Home runs. Extra-base hits. Pressure every inning. By the ninth, this thing is tied, Busch Stadium is stunned silent, and you’re thinking: “This is one of those franchise-altering collapses.”
But elite teams—real contenders—don’t need to be perfect. They just need to be last.
Andy McLaren steps up in the bottom of the ninth and does the most important thing in sports: he ends the conversation. Not a bomb. Not a miracle. A simple, ruthless walk-off single.
St. Louis didn’t dominate this game.
They survived it.
And now they’re up 3–2, heading back to Milwaukee with momentum, history, and pressure all tilted in their favor. That’s not pretty baseball—but it’s winning baseball.
Walter White Recap
“This is not a collapse. This is control… temporarily misplaced.”
St. Louis did not lose its lead because Milwaukee was lucky. They lost it because they became complacent. Success breeds softness. Softness invites chaos.
Milwaukee sensed blood. And once you show weakness, you don’t get to decide how far the knife goes in.
By the time the Brewers erased an 11–1 deficit, the Cardinals were no longer playing to win—they were playing not to lose. That’s fear. And fear is expensive.
But here’s the mistake everyone makes when they call this a choke.
A true collapse ends with defeat.
Andy McLaren didn’t panic. He didn’t try to be a hero. He waited for his pitch and ended it. That’s not luck—that’s composure under extreme pressure. That’s a man who understands timing.
The Brewers did everything right to get back into the game.
The Cardinals did the one thing that matters most.
They finished.
Now Milwaukee has to fly home knowing they did the impossible… and still walked away empty-handed. That kind of loss lingers. That kind of loss eats at you.
St. Louis is one win away from its first World Series in 15 years.
And after a game like this?
They don’t just believe they’ll get there.
They expect to.

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St. Louis Cardinals: 1933 National League Champions
1908 1912 1915 1918 1933

Colin Cowherd
“This is why momentum is overrated—and execution isn’t.”
Everybody walked into this game thinking Milwaukee had a puncher’s chance. Home park, emotional crowd, Cardinals bullpen that looked human in Game 5. And for stretches? The Brewers absolutely landed blows.
But here’s the separator: St. Louis never stopped scoring.
They didn’t play scared. They didn’t turtle. Every time Milwaukee surged—fifth inning, sixth inning—you looked up and St. Louis had already answered. That’s what veteran teams do. They don’t try to be perfect; they try to be relentless.
Mike Jankowski? That’s a postseason alpha. Five RBIs in a clincher, Series MVP, and a ninth-inning homer just to make sure there was no ambiguity. Stars don’t rise in October—they reveal themselves.
Milwaukee? Same story, different year. Productive lineup, tons of hits, but too many pitches in the middle of the plate and too many moments where they needed one shutdown inning and couldn’t find it.
St. Louis didn’t dominate this series.
They managed it.
And now they’re back where franchises measure themselves—on the doorstep of a World Series.

Chris “Mad Dog” Russo
“Mike, Mike, Mike—this is brutal if you’re Milwaukee, absolutely brutal!”
You score nine runs, you get seventeen hits, you’re at home, and you STILL lose the pennant? I mean c’mon! How many times are we gonna do this with the Brewers in October?!
They had chances every inning! First and second, nobody out—nothing! Big hit, then a pitching change, then boom—Cardinals answer right back! You cannot trade punches with St. Louis, they’re too comfortable in chaos!
And Jankowski—are you kidding me?! Every big spot, there he is. RBI here, double there, then he parks one in the ninth just to shut the building down. That’s a pennant-clinching swing!
For the Cardinals, this is a release. Fifteen years of waiting, fifteen years of watching other teams celebrate—and now they’re popping champagne on the road. That matters.
For Milwaukee? Same old nightmare. Great team. Fun team. And once again, October doesn’t care.

Mike Francesa
“Alright, let’s calm this down and talk about what actually happened.”
This game wasn’t clean. It wasn’t pretty. And frankly, neither pitching staff covered itself in glory. But postseason baseball isn’t about aesthetics—it’s about sequencing.
St. Louis scored in six different innings. Milwaukee scored in four, but too often they needed three hits to do what the Cardinals did with one. That’s the difference.
Jankowski is obviously the headline—and deservedly so—but Dominguez getting on base four times, Martinez scoring four runs, that’s table-setting at a championship level.
Now Milwaukee’s issue—and this has been true for years—is they don’t get enough shutdown pitching when games start to tilt. You cannot give up runs in the sixth, seventh, and ninth in an elimination game. You just can’t.
St. Louis earns this pennant. They didn’t steal it. They didn’t fluke it. They won four games against a very capable opponent.
And now they move on with a chance to win their third World Series, first since 1918.

Bob Costas
There is something unmistakably cyclical about baseball history, and on a cool October afternoon in Milwaukee, the St. Louis Cardinals completed a journey that began long before any of these players were born.
This franchise, crowned champions in 1915 and 1918, had spent fifteen years circling memory rather than adding to it. If you look at St. Louis over the past decade and a half, they've been largely dormant, near the cellar of the league. And now, at last, after a smart rebuild, a pennant reclaimed.
Game 6 was not a coronation—it was a trial.
Milwaukee refused to fade, amassing seventeen hits and repeatedly testing the Cardinals’ resolve. Yet each time the Brewers closed the distance, St. Louis restored order. A timely double. A sacrifice fly. And finally, Mike Jankowski’s ninth-inning home run—a swing that echoed far beyond American Family Field.
For Milwaukee, this defeat joins a familiar lineage: strong seasons undone by October’s unforgiving margins.
For St. Louis, it is a return—to relevance, to legacy, and now, to the World Series stage.
The Cardinals will play for a championship once more.
History has reopened its doors.

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1933 NLCS summary

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1933 World Series

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Colin Cowherd
Let me fix the framing immediately, because this matters.
This wasn’t back-and-forth chaos.
This was St. Louis dominating, then nearly giving everyone in Missouri a heart attack, and still walking out with the win.
At one point, it’s 13–1 Cardinals. That’s not a game—that’s a message. That’s St. Louis saying, “We belong here. We’re older, tougher, and we’ve done this before.”
And then Tampa Bay does something incredible. They don’t fold. They don’t panic. They just keep swinging. Run by run. Inning by inning. Suddenly it’s tied. Suddenly the Cardinals are thinking, “How did this happen?”
But here’s the separator: championship teams survive their worst moments.
Mike Jankowski’s homer in the tenth? That’s not just a swing—that’s experience. That’s a guy who’s already decided how the story ends. Jose Dominguez driving the offense early? That’s setting the tone before the chaos even begins.
Tampa showed they belong. No doubt.
But St. Louis showed something more important: they can blow a massive lead, absorb the punch, and still land the final one.
That’s how you win titles.

Jerry Seinfeld
So let me get this straight.
St. Louis is up 13–1.
That’s not a lead—that’s “Should we start packing?”
And Tampa Bay says, “No, no… let’s make this extremely uncomfortable for everyone.”
Because what is more stressful than thinking you’ve won… and then realizing you absolutely have not?
Run after run after run. Suddenly it’s tied. And the Cardinals fans are thinking, “Wait, weren’t we celebrating three hours ago?”
And the Rays—credit to them—they just keep showing up. Nobody leaves. Nobody sulks. It’s like the baseball version of someone saying, “I know it’s late, but let’s talk about this.”
Then the tenth inning comes, and Jankowski hits that home run—and that’s the moment. That’s the sigh. That’s the, “Okay… we can breathe again.”
Not relief. Exhaustion.
This game didn’t end—it stopped.

Cowherd (closing)
This is a pivotal Game 1.
Tampa Bay learned they can hang with St. Louis—even when buried.
But St. Louis learned something more valuable: they don’t need perfect baseball to win.
They can dominate.
They can stumble.
They can get punched in the mouth.
And when it matters most, they still have the best at-bats on the field.
That’s a veteran team stealing home-field advantage and telling you, “You’re going to have to take this from us.”

Seinfeld (closing)
Thirteen to one.
Tied.
Extra innings.
And it’s just Game 1.
If this is how the series starts, I don’t know how anyone’s supposed to relax.
I mean really… what’s the deal with World Series openers?! ⚾😄

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Colin Cowherd
This is why I always say momentum is real — and denial is expensive.
Game 1? Tampa Bay lost, but they learned something.
Game 2? They applied it with force.
Because when you hang 14 runs in a single inning on a World Series team, that’s not luck. That’s not randomness. That’s a message.
This inning wasn’t about home runs alone. It was about discipline. Long at-bats. Fouling off pitches. Making St. Louis work. And then—boom—once the bullpen door opened, the game broke wide open. Walks. Doubles. Missed locations. You could feel the Cardinals unraveling pitch by pitch.
Here’s the takeaway:
St. Louis won Game 1 with resilience.
Tampa won Game 2 with authority.
That sixth inning flipped the series emotionally. Tampa didn’t just even it up — they reminded everyone they’re not here for moral victories. They’re here because when conditions tilt even slightly in their favor, they can bury you.
That’s a championship trait.

Mike Francesa
Alright, let’s slow this down, because this wasn’t some fluky inning.
You don’t score fourteen runs in the World Series unless a lot of things go wrong — and unless the other team does a lot of things right.
The Cardinals starter lost command. That’s the beginning. Then you go to the bullpen, and instead of stopping the bleeding, it pours gasoline on it. You can’t have that in October. You just can’t. Walks, bad counts, pitches left up — that’s how innings snowball.
Now give Tampa credit. They didn’t chase. They didn’t expand the zone. They let St. Louis beat itself, and then they punished mistakes. That’s professional hitting.
And here’s the key point: Game 2 exposed St. Louis’ biggest weakness. When things go sideways, they don’t have the shutdown arm to slam the door immediately. That’s fine in July. That’s a problem in the World Series.
This series is even now, but psychologically? Tampa got something back that St. Louis took in Game 1.

Chris Russo
MIKE, MIKE, MIKE — this is why you don’t overreact to Game 1!
Fourteen runs in ONE INNING!
FOUR-TEEN!
I don’t care what level you’re playing at — Little League, college, the SHOW — you don’t just accidentally do that.
This inning was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Every batter comes up, and you’re thinking, “Okay, this has to stop now.” And it never does! Pitching change? Nope. Defensive miscue? Yep. Big hit? Another one!
And Tampa’s dugout — they knew. They weren’t shocked. They were calm. That’s scary.
St. Louis looked rattled. That’s rare for them. You don’t usually see that team flinch — but they flinched tonight.
Now it’s a series. Not “could be.”
It IS.

Bob Costas
Baseball has always had a unique capacity for sudden, irreversible moments — and the sixth inning of Game 2 will endure as one of them.
For five innings, this game carried the quiet tension of a typical World Series contest. Then, without warning, it transformed. Tampa Bay sent nineteen men to the plate. The inning unfolded not as a burst, but as an accumulation — each baserunner adding weight, each pitching change failing to alter the trajectory.
Fourteen runs later, the Cardinals were left with a stunned ballpark and a night that had slipped beyond repair.
What made the inning so striking was not merely its length or its brutality, but its contrast with Game 1. St. Louis survived adversity then. Tonight, they were overwhelmed by it.
For Tampa Bay, this was more than an equalizer in the standings. It was a declaration: that their comeback loss the night before had not lingered as disappointment, but had sharpened resolve.
As the series moves forward, this inning will echo — not just in the box score, but in the minds of both clubs. One team now knows it can absorb punishment and respond. The other must prove that one extraordinary collapse does not define it.
That tension, as ever, is the essence of October baseball.

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Bob Costas
If Game 1 was survival and Game 2 was eruption, Game 3 was something else entirely: excess.
Seventeen runs for Tampa Bay. Sixteen for St. Louis. Nine home runs combined. A World Series game that refused to settle, refused to stabilize, and finally resolved itself only in the final inning.
The Cardinals did almost everything required to win a classic.
Mike Jankowski authored one of the greatest individual performances in World Series history — four hits, five runs scored, two home runs, a triple, a double — a cycle plus power, plus chaos.
Andy McLaren added three home runs of his own.
Travis Johnson chipped in two more.
And yet, it wasn’t enough.
Because baseball, in its quiet cruelty, does not reward volume alone — it rewards timing. And in the top of the ninth, Brian Petro provided it. His two-run home run, with Tampa Bay trailing by one, instantly flipped the game and silenced Busch Stadium.
This was not a failure of offense for St. Louis. It was the rarest kind of loss — one where the box score looks victorious, but the night belongs to the other team.

Colin Cowherd
This is where I tell you who Tampa Bay actually is.
They don’t win pretty.
They don’t win clean.
They win late.
You give me all the homers you want — McLaren hits three, Jankowski hits two, Johnson hits two — and Tampa still walks out with the win. Why? Because when the game got uncomfortable, when it got weird, when it turned into a street fight… they didn’t blink.
Brian Petro is the whole story. Four RBIs. Two walks. And then that ninth-inning bomb? That’s not a coincidence. That’s a hitter who understands leverage.
St. Louis did everything right except the one thing that matters most: finishing.
And here’s the scary part for the Cardinals — Tampa Bay didn’t even pitch well. They blew leads, gave up homers, let the game spiral… and still won on the road.
That’s a problem.

Mike Francesa
Alright, let’s be honest here.
You score sixteen runs at home in the World Series, you expect to win. Period. End of discussion.
The Cardinals’ lineup was outrageous. Jankowski — historic. McLaren — three homers. Johnson — two. That’s not normal production, that’s a video game.
But the pitching? Completely unreliable. Too many mistakes. Too many pitches left up. And when you give Tampa Bay that many chances, they will take one late.
The ninth inning can’t happen. It just can’t. You’ve got a one-run lead, you need one clean frame, and instead you give up a two-run homer. That’s execution. Or lack of it.
This series is now 2–1 Tampa Bay, and St. Louis has to be asking itself a very uncomfortable question:
How do you lose a game like this?

Chris Russo
MIKE — MIKE — THIS GAME WAS INSANE!
INSANE!
NINE HOMERS!
SEVENTEEN RUNS!
AND YOU STILL LOSE AT HOME?!
Jankowski was EVERYWHERE. The guy hits for power, speed, everything — FIVE RUNS! McLaren hits THREE bombs! And it DOESN’T MATTER!
Because Tampa Bay just keeps coming. Every time you think it’s over — nope. Another inning. Another hit. Another punch.
And that ninth inning — forget about it. Petro steps up and BOOM! Series-changing swing.
This wasn’t a bullpen collapse — this was a track meet, and Tampa Bay won by one step at the finish line.
Now the Rays are up 2–1, they’ve won twice in St. Louis, and the Cardinals are sitting there thinking, “What else could we possibly do?”
That’s October, baby.

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Chris Russo
MIKE — THIS WAS A MUGGING.
A MUGGING!
This wasn’t “oh they pulled away late,” this was OVER by the fourth inning. Four runs in the first, two more in the second, five in the fourth — I mean, come on! You’re sitting there in Busch Stadium and it feels like the Rays are batting every five minutes.
Ross Mojica hits THREE HOME RUNS, drives in six, and it’s like every swing is louder than the last one. Abrego’s crushing balls, Montes is running wild, Papasogli’s hitting ropes — this was a full lineup assault.
And St. Louis? Totally overwhelmed. No answers. No momentum. No crowd energy.
You go from losing heartbreakers to winning a laugher on the road in the World Series? That’s how you break a team’s spirit.

Mike Francesa
This was the first game in the series that wasn’t close — and that matters.
The Cardinals’ pitching completely collapsed. Castillo couldn’t locate, the bullpen couldn’t stop it, and Tampa Bay smelled blood immediately. Once it got to 6–1, this thing was academic.
Mojica was the best player on the field by a wide margin. Three home runs, a triple, six RBIs — that’s not just production, that’s dominance. And Guerrero gave them exactly what they needed: innings. He didn’t have to be brilliant, he just had to absorb contact, and he did.
Now it’s 3–1. Historically, that’s the series. The Cardinals are chasing the games now instead of controlling them, and that’s a bad place to be.

Colin Cowherd
This is what separation looks like.
Game 3 was chaos. Game 4 was structure. Tampa Bay said, “We’re better, and we’re going to show you early so nobody gets confused.”
Ross Mojica is the perfect modern postseason star — power, patience, situational hitting. He didn’t just homer; he hit the Cardinals when they were already wobbling. That second-inning two-run shot? That took the oxygen out of the building.
And let’s talk psychology. You lose a one-run heartbreaker, you come back the next day, and you get punched in the mouth immediately. That’s how series end quietly.
The Rays don’t look tense. They don’t look desperate. They look like a team that knows it’s holding the trophy — it just hasn’t been handed to them yet.

Bob Costas
For three games, the World Series had been loud, frenetic, almost ungovernable.
Game 4 was something else: inevitable.
From the opening inning, Tampa Bay seized control, layering run upon run until the scoreboard itself seemed implausible. Ross Mojica authored one of the great World Series performances — three home runs, six RBIs, fifteen total bases — a night that will live comfortably beside the legends of October.
Just as telling was the calm efficiency of the Rays. Guerrero pitched deep. The defense stayed composed. The lineup never chased excess — it simply kept advancing the score.
For St. Louis, this was sobering. The Cardinals have swung with fury all series, but on this night, they were drowned by volume and precision.
Now the Rays stand one win away. Not because of a bounce, or a break — but because, at this moment, they are playing a more complete brand of baseball.

World Series Snapshot
Final: Tampa Bay 18, St. Louis 5
Series: Rays lead 3–1
Defining Performance: Ross Mojica — 3 HR, 6 RBI
Tone Shift: From chaos… to control

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