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Icon Showdown, 7297 Consear Road, Saint Louis, MI (2026)

03/21/2026

One swing kept a franchise from disappearing entirely

They did it in 1995, in Seattle.
Not just for a game.
For what came after.

On October 8, 1995, Game 5 of the American League Division Series was played at the Kingdome. The Seattle Mariners had never reached a League Championship Series. The New York Yankees had the structure, history, and expectation.

The series had already stretched to its limit.

This was the final game.

Seattle fell behind early. The Yankees built a lead through controlled innings, taking advantage of mistakes that did not repeat often. By the middle innings, the score reflected a familiar pattern—New York ahead, Seattle chasing.

The Mariners responded.

Not with a single shift, but with accumulation. Hits placed, runners advanced, pressure extended. The game tightened. The deficit reduced.

By the ninth inning, Seattle trailed 5–4.

The season narrowed to three outs.

The Mariners scored a run to tie the game.

It did not end there.

Extra innings followed.

This is the reveal.

A game that refused to close within its expected frame.

The reframe sits in what Seattle had already faced before that night.

The franchise had been uncertain. Ownership questions, attendance concerns, and discussions about relocation had followed the team for years. The Kingdome itself was part of that conversation—a temporary solution that had lasted longer than intended.

Baseball in Seattle was not secure.

This series changed that context.

The game continued into the 11th inning.

New York scored again, taking a 6–5 lead. The structure returned—Seattle behind, needing immediate response.

They did not slow.

Joey Cora singled. Ken Griffey Jr. reached base. The tying run moved into scoring position. The winning run stood behind it.

Edgar Martínez came to the plate.

He was 32 years old, a hitter defined by precision more than power. His role was to produce contact in situations that required it.

The pitch came.

He swung.

The ball traveled down the left-field line, into the corner.

Cora scored.

Griffey did not stop.

He ran from first base, rounding third, moving through the final decision point without hesitation. The throw came in. It was not enough.

Griffey slid across home plate.

Safe.

Seattle won, 6–5.

This is the second reveal.

A hit that completed the comeback and ended the game in one motion.

The consequence extends beyond the score.

The Mariners advanced to their first American League Championship Series. The immediate result was clear.

The larger impact took longer to measure.

Attendance increased. Public support shifted. Plans for a new stadium gained traction. In 1996, voters approved funding that led to the construction of Safeco Field (now T-Mobile Park).

The franchise remained in Seattle.

The hit did not achieve that alone.

But it marked the point where the direction changed.

The Yankees lost the game.

They would not remain in that position long. Their structure—resources, development, continuity—would carry them into a period of sustained success starting the next year.

Seattle’s path was different.

The moment did not create a dynasty.

It created stability.

That distinction matters.

The game itself remains contained within 11 innings.

The impact extends beyond it.

One swing.
Two runs.

The season continued.
The franchise did too.

History records the double.
It also records what it made possible afterward.

03/21/2026

The game extended past midnight and kept asking more

They did it in 2018, in Los Angeles.
Not quickly.
Long after it should have ended.

On October 26, 2018, Game 3 of the World Series began at Dodger Stadium under normal conditions. By the time it ended, it had crossed into the early hours of the next day, lasting 18 innings.

The Boston Red Sox led the series two games to none.

The Dodgers needed a response.

Early innings followed expectation. Boston scored first. Los Angeles answered. The game moved evenly, neither side separating enough to control the outcome.

By the ninth inning, the score was tied.

This is where most games resolve.

This one did not.

The tenth inning brought a shift. The Dodgers scored, taking a 2–1 lead. The structure seemed complete—late lead, closer available, the game narrowing.

Boston responded in the next inning.

The tying run scored.

The game extended again.

This is the reveal.

A game that refused to accept its own ending.

The reframe sits in what the length required.

Pitching roles dissolved first. Starters were long gone. Closers had been used. Relievers entered in unfamiliar situations, often pitching longer than designed.

Nathan Eovaldi became central to that shift.

He entered in relief for Boston and remained for multiple innings, far beyond a typical appearance. He threw more than 90 pitches, effectively taking on the role of a starter inside a game that had already passed its normal length.

He allowed runs.

He stayed.

The system asked him to.

Position players approached the edge of availability. Bench options thinned. Managers adjusted not for advantage, but for survival—who could remain on the field long enough to finish.

The innings continued.

Each one carried the same structure. A chance to end it. A failure to do so.

The Dodgers threatened. The Red Sox answered. Neither side held the final margin.

Time became part of the game.

Midnight passed.

The crowd remained, but changed. Less noise. More endurance. Each pitch carried weight, not because of the score alone, but because of how long it had taken to reach that point.

In the 18th inning, the Dodgers came to bat again.

Max Muncy stepped in.

The count moved.

The pitch came.

He swung.

The ball cleared the left-field wall.

The game ended.

Los Angeles won, 3–2.

After seven hours and 20 minutes.

The consequence is not only in the length.

It is in how the game redistributed responsibility.

Eovaldi, who allowed the final run, became one of the defining figures of the night—not for closing it, but for extending it. His performance did not produce a win. It prevented multiple endings.

That distinction stayed with the record.

The Dodgers gained one game in the series.

The Red Sox retained control.

They would win the World Series in five games.

Game 3 did not change the final outcome.

It changed the shape of it.

The teams played one game that functioned like two, then three, then more. The standard structure—nine innings, defined roles, clear pacing—did not apply.

They continued anyway.

The game did not shorten.
It expanded until it found an ending.

History records 18 innings.
It also records the cost required to reach them.

03/21/2026

The night would not settle into anything predictable

They did it in 2017, in Houston.
Not cleanly.
Not once.

On October 29, 2017, Game 5 of the World Series did not follow a single structure long enough to hold. The Los Angeles Dodgers and Houston Astros entered tied at two games each. By the end, the score would read 13–12.

That number does not explain how it happened.

The Dodgers started with control. Clayton Kershaw, 29 years old, took the mound with a lead built early. Los Angeles scored three runs in the first inning. The game appeared to settle into a familiar pattern—strong starting pitching, measured offense, limited variance.

It did not last.

Houston responded quickly. A home run. Then another. The deficit narrowed, then disappeared. The game shifted from controlled to unstable within two innings.

This is the reveal.

A World Series game that refused to remain in one state.

The reframe is in how both teams lost and regained control repeatedly, without holding it.

Kershaw, usually reliable in long stretches, gave up multiple home runs. Dallas Keuchel, Houston’s starter, did not stabilize the game either. Both teams moved to their bullpens earlier than planned.

The structure broke.

Relievers entered in sequences that did not align with their usual roles. The goal was no longer to manage the game. It was to survive it.

The Dodgers regained a lead in the fifth inning. Yasiel Puig hit a home run that pushed the score forward again. It looked like separation.

It wasn’t.

Houston answered in the bottom half. More runs. More swings that changed the score immediately. The game did not pause between them.

By the ninth inning, Los Angeles led 12–9.

Three runs. Three outs.

The structure returned.

Kenley Jansen, one of the most reliable closers in baseball, entered to finish the game. His role was defined by consistency. He did not often lose control.

This time, he did not hold it.

Houston scored two runs. The margin narrowed to one. Then, with two outs, the tying run crossed the plate.

12–12.

The game extended into extra innings.

This is the second reveal.

Even the final structure failed to close.

The reframe sits in what this game later came to represent.

At the time, it was described as one of the most dramatic games in postseason history. The swings, the noise, the constant reversals—everything visible suggested unpredictability at its highest level.

Years later, the context changed.

Investigations by Major League Baseball confirmed that the Houston Astros had used an illegal sign-stealing system during the 2017 season, including the postseason. The league issued discipline in 2020, suspending team officials and fining the organization.

Game 5 became part of that larger record.

Not every pitch was known. Not every outcome was determined.

But the environment was not neutral.

That does not erase what happened on the field.

It complicates it.

The consequence remains layered.

The Astros won the game in the 10th inning on a walk-off hit by Alex Bregman. They took a 3–2 lead in the series. They would go on to win the World Series in seven games.

The Dodgers lost that game, and the series.

The score remains.

The sequence remains.

So does the context that came later.

The game did not settle.
The record did, eventually.

History keeps both versions at once.
The chaos on the field.
And the system behind it that was not fully visible at the time.

03/21/2026

One swing became something larger than the game itself

They did it in 2015, in Toronto.
Not quietly.
After everything broke.

On October 14, 2015, Game 5 of the American League Division Series did not move cleanly from inning to inning. It stalled, reversed, and expanded before it settled.

The Texas Rangers led 3–2 in the seventh inning.

The Blue Jays had not found a stable rhythm. The game had already stretched beyond its normal pace, filled with interruptions and tension that did not resolve quickly.

Then the inning changed shape.

A routine throw back to the pitcher struck the bat of Shin-Soo Choo. The ball deflected away. A run scored. The play was ruled live. Confusion followed.

The Rangers argued. The umpires conferred. The call stood.

Toronto tied the game, 3–3.

This is the first reveal.

A rule applied correctly, but in a way that disrupted expectation.

The inning did not reset.

Texas responded immediately. A series of hits and defensive misplays followed. The Blue Jays committed errors that did not exist earlier in the game. The Rangers scored three runs.

The score moved to 6–3.

The structure appeared restored.

But it was not stable.

The reframe sits in how quickly control had become temporary.

Toronto came to bat in the bottom of the seventh with the deficit restored. The inning extended again. Walks. Errors. A sequence that did not close.

The Rangers, who had benefited from defensive lapses minutes earlier, now committed their own.

The game did not return to order.

It stayed open.

The Blue Jays loaded the bases.

José Bautista stepped in.

He was 34 years old, already central to Toronto’s offense. Power defined his role, but so did timing. The moment did not require patience. It required contact that would change the score immediately.

The count moved.

The pitch came inside.

Bautista swung.

The ball left the bat hard, rising toward left field. It cleared the wall. A three-run home run.

Toronto led, 7–6.

Then came the motion that extended beyond the score.

Bautista dropped his bat with force, flipping it high toward the first-base line. He watched the ball. The crowd responded. The moment separated from the game itself.

This is the second reveal.

A swing that did not end with the hit.

The reframe is in what that reaction represented.

Baseball had long operated within quiet expectations—controlled celebrations, minimal expression. Bautista’s bat flip did not follow that pattern. It made visible what the inning had already shown: that control had broken, that the game no longer fit its usual boundaries.

The reaction became part of the event.

Not just the run. The response to it.

The Rangers did not recover.

The remaining innings closed without reversal. The Blue Jays won, 7–6, and advanced to the American League Championship Series.

The consequence extends beyond the result.

The game itself had already been unstable—rules invoked, errors exchanged, momentum shifting within minutes. Bautista’s home run did not create that instability.

It marked it.

The bat flip became a reference point, discussed beyond the series, beyond the season. It represented a shift in how players expressed moments that had always existed but had rarely been shown so openly.

But the structure of the game remained.

Toronto advanced.

Texas did not.

The inning that decided it contained both teams losing and regaining control within the same span.

No single narrative holds it fully.

The game broke.
Then it ended.

History records the home run.
It also records the inning that refused to stay contained.

03/21/2026

The game slipped away late and did not return

They did it in 2015, in New York.
Not quickly.
At the edge of control.

On November 1, 2015, Game 5 of the World Series placed the Kansas City Royals one win from a championship. The New York Mets held a late lead at Citi Field. The structure favored closure.

The Mets led 2–0 in the ninth inning.

Their starter, Matt Harvey, had controlled the game. He had limited Kansas City’s contact, worked deep into innings, and carried the lead into a position where one clean inning would end the series.

The decision came.

Harvey stayed in.

This is where the sequence shifts.

The Royals did not change approach. They had built their season on contact, pressure, and refusing to strike out. They did not rely on one swing. They relied on accumulation.

The ninth inning began with a walk.

Then a single.

The tying run reached base without force.

Harvey remained on the mound.

A sacrifice fly scored a run. The margin narrowed to 2–1. The tying run moved into scoring position.

The Mets turned to their bullpen.

Jeurys Familia entered.

He had been effective all season. The role was clear—secure the final outs.

The Royals continued the same pattern.

A ground ball. Routine on most nights.

It did not end the inning.

The throw home pulled slightly off line. Eric Hosmer did not stop at third base. He ran through the decision point and continued to the plate.

He scored.

The game tied, 2–2.

This is the reveal.

A sequence built from small plays, completed by a decision to not stop.

The reframe sits in how Kansas City operated under pressure.

They did not wait for a mistake to become obvious. They moved before it was confirmed. Hosmer’s run was not guaranteed. It required a read, a commitment, and acceptance of risk.

The Mets, in contrast, had controlled the game for eight innings.

One inning changed it.

The game moved into extra innings.

Kansas City expanded.

In the 12th inning, the Royals scored five runs. Not through a single defining moment, but through continuation—hits placed, runners advancing, the defense unable to reset quickly enough.

The score moved to 7–2.

The structure that had held for most of the night did not return.

The Mets scored once more.

It did not alter the outcome.

The final out was recorded.

The Royals won, 7–2.

The consequence is tied to how quickly control can dissolve.

For eight innings, New York had executed cleanly. Pitching, defense, and timing aligned. The game remained within their structure.

The ninth inning introduced a different one.

Kansas City’s approach—contact, pressure, movement—does not require dominance. It requires persistence. It asks the defense to complete every play without deviation.

One throw shifted.

One decision extended it.

The result followed.

For the Royals, the championship confirmed a model built on consistency rather than star-driven moments. They had reached the World Series the year before and lost. In 2015, they returned with the same structure and finished it.

For the Mets, the loss attached to a single inning that did not hold.

No collapse across the game.

One sequence that did not close.

The record shows a five-run difference.

The game did not feel that way until it did.

It was close.
Then it wasn’t.

History records the rally.
It also records how little was needed to start it.

03/20/2026

October moved quietly, then settled fully with San Francisco

They did it in 2010, in Philadelphia.
Not loudly.
With control.

On October 23, 2010, Game 6 of the National League Championship Series placed the San Francisco Giants one win from the World Series. The Philadelphia Phillies, defending National League champions, had built their identity on offense and experience.

They had not lost at home easily.

The Giants brought a different structure.

Pitching first. Contact when needed. No reliance on extended scoring.

This was not a matchup of equals in style.

It was a test of which structure would hold longer.

Roy Halladay started for Philadelphia. He was 33, one of the most precise pitchers in the game. He had already thrown a no-hitter earlier that postseason. The expectation was control.

San Francisco countered with a group rather than a single dominant name. The rotation had depth. The bullpen had defined roles. The approach was to limit, not overwhelm.

This is the reveal.

A game where one run would carry more weight than a lineup.

The Giants scored first.

In the third inning, Cody Ross hit a home run to left field. It was not a large inning. It did not need to be. Against Halladay, opportunities were limited.

That swing created a 1–0 lead.

It held.

The reframe is in how the Giants had reached this position.

They were not built like Philadelphia. Their offense ranked lower during the regular season. They did not dominate through scoring. They advanced through containment—keeping games within reach and then holding the smallest possible margin.

In October, that structure compresses the game.

One run becomes enough.

Philadelphia had chances.

Runners reached base in multiple innings. The crowd responded. The pressure built in waves, especially in the later innings, where the Phillies had been strongest in previous postseasons.

Each time, the Giants closed the inning without damage.

No collapse. No extended rally.

The bullpen became the center of the game.

Relievers entered early enough to prevent momentum from forming. Javier López, Sergio Romo, and others matched specific hitters. The strategy was not to wait for trouble, but to prevent it from starting.

The game narrowed with each out.

By the ninth inning, the score remained unchanged.

Brian Wilson took the mound.

He had been consistent throughout the season. The role was clear. Three outs to close a structure that had held for eight innings.

The Phillies’ final hitters came to the plate.

The tying run did not score.

The last out was recorded.

The Giants won, 3–2.

The score suggests more offense than the game allowed. Most of the tension came from what did not happen—rallies that did not extend, innings that ended one batter too soon.

San Francisco secured the pennant.

The consequence is not just advancement.

It is validation of a structure that did not align with expectation.

Philadelphia’s model—power, depth, sustained offense—had defined the National League. They were the reference point. They were expected to return to the World Series.

San Francisco disrupted that.

Not by outscoring.

By outlasting.

The Giants would carry that approach into the World Series and win it. Their model—strong pitching, controlled offense, and precise bullpen usage—proved repeatable under postseason conditions.

For Philadelphia, the loss marked the end of a run.

They remained competitive, but they did not return to that same position in the following years. The window narrowed, not because the system failed, but because it met one that required fewer mistakes.

The game did not expand.

That was the point.

One run early.
No opening late.

October did not shift suddenly.
It settled into a different kind of control.

History records the pennant.
It also records how little was needed to secure it.

03/20/2026

The ending paused, then returned exactly where it left

They did it in 2008, in Philadelphia.
Not in one night.
Across two.

On October 27, 2008, Game 5 of the World Series began at Citizens Bank Park with the Philadelphia Phillies one win from a championship. Rain had been present throughout the series. That night, it did not leave.

The Phillies led the series three games to one. The Tampa Bay Rays, in their first World Series appearance, needed to extend it.

The game started normally.

Philadelphia scored early. Tampa Bay answered. By the sixth inning, the score was tied, 2–2.

The rain intensified.

The field became unstable. The ball did not travel cleanly. Footing shifted. The conditions no longer supported a standard game.

Major League Baseball made a decision.

The game would be suspended.

Not ended. Not reset. Suspended, to be resumed later from the exact point it had stopped.

This had not happened in a World Series before.

The structure changed.

The ending would not come that night.

This is the reveal.

A championship game split across two days, held in place mid-inning.

The reframe is in what that pause required.

Both teams had to stop without resolution. Pitchers removed mid-performance. Lineups interrupted without completion. The rhythm of the game—built on continuity—was broken.

They would return not to a new game, but to an unfinished one.

On October 29, two days later, the teams came back.

The score was still 2–2. The count resumed in the bottom of the sixth inning.

No reset.

Only continuation.

Geoff Jenkins opened with a walk. A small action, but one that restarted pressure immediately. Pinch-runner Eric Bruntlett advanced. A hit moved him further.

Then Pedro Feliz drove a ball into the outfield.

The run scored.

Philadelphia led 3–2.

It was the first separation since the early innings, and it arrived after a pause long enough to alter preparation, rest, and momentum.

The Rays responded in the seventh inning. A run that tied the game again, 3–3.

The delay had not removed their capacity to answer.

The game remained balanced.

But the structure of late innings favors control.

The Phillies added one more run in the bottom of the seventh. Built without spectacle. A sequence of contact and advancement.

The lead returned.

Brad Lidge, Philadelphia’s closer, entered in the ninth inning. He had not blown a save all season. The system had held for months.

Three outs remained.

The Rays placed a runner on base. The potential for another interruption was present, even at the end.

It did not extend.

The final pitch was thrown.

Strike three.

The Phillies won, 4–3.

The consequence sits in how the game was completed.

This was not a comeback defined by a single inning, or a dominant performance that controlled the entire night. It was a game that had to be paused and then resumed under altered conditions, without losing its original structure.

The Phillies did not restart.

They continued.

That distinction matters.

The Rays, a young team built on speed and flexibility, had adapted throughout the season. But this required a different adjustment—returning to a moment that had already begun, without the usual reset that time provides.

Philadelphia managed that transition more cleanly.

They scored first after the pause. They held the final lead.

The championship followed.

It was the franchise’s first since 1980.

The record shows a single game.

The reality holds two nights.

The ending waited.
But it did not change.

History records the final score.
It also records the interruption that made the finish arrive in pieces.

03/20/2026

One pitch closed a game that stayed unresolved

They did it in 2006, in St. Louis.
Not early.
At the last moment.

On October 19, 2006, Game 7 of the National League Championship Series came down to separation that never fully formed. The New York Mets and the St. Louis Cardinals had split six games without either side taking control for long.

This was the final frame.

The Cardinals held a 1–0 lead into the ninth inning. The run had come in the sixth, when Yadier Molina, not known for power, drove a ball into the left-field seats. A single swing that stood alone on the scoreboard.

It looked small.

It held for three innings.

This is the reveal.

A game decided by one unexpected home run.

The reframe begins with how that run existed.

St. Louis had built its roster around pitching depth and situational hitting. Molina’s role was defense, control of the game behind the plate, and management of pitchers. Power was not the expectation.

But in that inning, against Mets starter Tom Glavine, he provided the only break.

The rest of the game tightened around it.

The Mets had chances. Runners reached base across multiple innings. The pressure accumulated, but never released into a run. Each opportunity closed before it could extend.

The Cardinals did not add to the lead.

They protected it.

By the ninth inning, the structure was clear. One run. Three outs needed. The Mets’ season reduced to a final sequence.

Adam Wainwright, 25 years old, took the mound. A rookie closer in a position usually reserved for experience. The Cardinals had shifted roles late in the season, trusting performance over tenure.

This was the result.

The Mets sent their best remaining hitters to the plate. Two reached base. The tying run moved into scoring position. The potential for reversal was immediate.

Carlos Beltrán stepped in.

He had already hit three home runs earlier in the series. He was not an uncertain outcome. He was the one most likely to change it.

The count moved to two strikes.

Wainwright threw a curveball.

Beltrán did not swing.

Strike three.

The game ended.

This is the second reveal.

A final pitch that did not require contact to decide the outcome.

The reframe is in the alignment of moments.

The Cardinals did not dominate the game. They did not build a lead that absorbed mistakes. They relied on a single run from a player not expected to provide it, and a final pitch from a pitcher not yet established in that role.

Both held.

The Mets, built for offense and depth, reached the final position they needed. Runner in scoring position. Best hitter at the plate. A count that still allowed adjustment.

They did not convert it.

That does not erase what came before. It compresses it.

A full season. A full series.

Reduced to one pitch.

The consequence sits in how the result is remembered.

Yadier Molina’s home run created the lead. Adam Wainwright’s curveball ended the game. Both are part of the same structure: minimal margin, sustained long enough to close.

The Cardinals advanced to the World Series.

They would win it.

The Mets did not return to that position immediately. The roster changed. The window narrowed.

The difference between continuation and reset was a pitch that did not invite a swing.

No system failed.

No collapse occurred.

The game stayed within its smallest possible margin and never expanded beyond it.

One run.
One pitch.

That was enough.

History records the strikeout.
It also records the quiet before it, where the game could have turned and did not.

03/20/2026

One swing delayed an ending already within reach

They did it in 2005, in Houston.
Not early.
At the edge.

On October 19, 2005, Game 6 of the National League Championship Series moved into its final innings with the Houston Astros one win from the World Series. They led the series three games to two. They led the game late.

The structure was in place.

Houston had built its season on pitching depth and late-inning control. Roger Clemens. Andy Pettitte. Roy Oswalt. And in the ninth inning, Brad Lidge, who had converted saves with consistency throughout the year.

St. Louis had been here before. A strong regular season. A deep lineup. But in this moment, they were behind, close to elimination.

The Astros led 4–2 entering the ninth inning.

Three outs away.

The Cardinals began with small resistance. A runner reached base. Then another. The inning did not resolve quickly. The pressure extended.

Lidge remained on the mound.

He had not failed often.

Albert Pujols stepped in.

He was 25 years old, already established as one of the most complete hitters in the game. Power, contact, discipline. The situation did not change his approach.

The count moved.

Lidge threw a slider.

Pujols swung.

The ball left the bat with immediate direction. High, deep, and carrying beyond the left-field stands. It cleared the stadium structures and disappeared into the night beyond.

The score changed from 4–2 to 5–4.

The inning did not end.

This is the reveal.

A single swing that reversed the outcome already in motion.

The reframe is in what it disrupted.

The Astros had constructed a sequence designed to close games. Starter hands off to bullpen. Bullpen hands off to closer. The final outs are contained within defined roles. Over a full season, that system had held.

In this moment, it did not.

Pujols did not just tie the game. He forced it into a different state—one where the expected ending no longer applied. The Astros still had chances to respond, but the structure that carried them to that point had been broken.

The Cardinals added another run.

The game extended beyond the ninth inning.

St. Louis won, 5–4.

The series moved to Game 7.

The consequence was immediate and visible.

Brad Lidge, who had been reliable across the season, carried that moment forward. The image remained attached to him in ways that statistics did not fully account for. One pitch, one result, altering perception.

For the Cardinals, the swing represented continuation. The season did not end that night. The opportunity remained.

But the reframe holds.

The Astros still won the series.

In Game 7, they closed the outcome that had been delayed. They advanced to the World Series for the first time in franchise history.

Pujols’s home run did not reverse the final result.

It interrupted it.

That distinction matters.

In postseason structure, not every defining moment changes the outcome of a series. Some change the shape of it. They alter timing, pressure, and memory without altering the final line.

This was one of those moments.

The Astros reached the World Series.

The Cardinals extended the series by one game.

Both are true.

The swing remains separate from the conclusion.

It stands on its own.

A moment where the expected ending arrived, then stopped.

The night did not close when it was supposed to.
The series did, one game later.

History records the winner.
It also records the interruption that refused to let it end quietly.

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