National Baseball League

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Atlanta Braves: 6th NLCS berth
1911 1927 1929 1931 1932 1934

JIM NANTZ:
October baseball has a way of revealing truth, and today in Atlanta, the truth was simple and unmistakable: the Braves are built for this. For the fifth time in the past eight seasons, they’re heading to the National League Championship Series, and once again, it was anchored by calm, command, and championship pedigree on the mound.

COLIN COWHERD:
Because this is what elite organizations do, Jim. They don’t panic when things wobble. They don’t flinch when momentum swings. They lean on their pillars—and Alex Sandoval is a pillar. Four Cy Young Awards don’t happen by accident. They happen because when the stakes rise, the pulse drops.

NANTZ:
Sandoval gave Atlanta exactly what they needed in a decisive Game 5. Seven and a third innings, three runs, eight strikeouts, just one walk. Efficient. Composed. Professional. The Dodgers had one opening—a three-run fourth inning that briefly tied the game—but that moment passed quickly.

COWHERD:
And that’s the key word—briefly. Great pitchers absorb chaos. Lesser ones let it snowball. Sandoval slammed the door emotionally before the bullpen ever had to. That’s leadership disguised as pitching.

NANTZ:
From there, Josh Brown delivered the finishing touch—two and a third scoreless innings, one hit allowed, no drama. Truist Park exhaled, and the Braves marched on.

COWHERD:
This Atlanta team understands October math. You don’t need perfection—you need control. You need stars who don’t chase the moment. And offensively, Eddie Quizhpe didn’t just chase a moment—he owned the series.

NANTZ:
Quizhpe was magnificent. Three hits today, two runs driven in, and a staggering .522 average for the series. He was named Series MVP, and rightfully so. Every big swing seemed to belong to him.

COWHERD:
Dynasties are built on reliability. Atlanta keeps showing up here because they know who they are. Sandoval steadies the ship. Quizhpe tilts the field. And suddenly, the Dodgers—back in the postseason for the first time since 1926—are heading home.

NANTZ:
Next stop: a heavyweight matchup with the San Francisco Giants in the NLCS. The schedule will come soon, but the message already has been delivered.

COWHERD:
The Braves don’t just reach this stage anymore—they expect it. And expectations, Jim, are the most dangerous thing in sports when you know how to meet them.

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1934 League Championship Series

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TONY KORNHEISER:
I’m exhausted just reading the box score, and I didn’t even play the game. Eleven innings, ten runs, Fenway Park doing Fenway Park things—and at the center of it all is a 34-year-old shortstop who apparently decided, “You know what? I’ll just end this myself.”
COLIN COWHERD:
Because that’s what veterans do, Tony. This game is the perfect reminder that playoff baseball isn’t always about the prettiest roster or the hottest trendy pick—it’s about who’s comfortable when everything’s on fire. Matt Croke has been around forever. He’s seen chaos. He doesn’t panic. He hunts it.
KORNHEISER:
Three for six, a homer, a double, three runs scored—and then the walk-off in the 11th. A one-out swing, no hesitation, good night, everybody go home. It’s the kind of ending that makes you forget there were about twelve pitching changes and forty-seven baserunners.
COWHERD:
And let’s be honest—this was a messy game. A fun mess, but a mess. Anaheim scores nine runs, gets thirteen hits, steals bases, hits for power… and still loses. That’s brutal. That’s the kind of loss that sits with you in the hotel room staring at the ceiling.
KORNHEISER:
The Angels had chances everywhere. They left thirteen men on base. Thirteen! That’s a traffic jam. That’s a parade that never gets to the destination.
COWHERD:
And Boston? Boston survives because they’re comfortable playing uncomfortable games. Fenway is weird, October is weird, and the Red Sox bullpen basically turned this into a relay race. Five pitchers after the second inning, duct tape everywhere—and somehow they’re still standing.
KORNHEISER:
I loved the contrast. Anaheim hits early, Boston answers late, Anaheim answers again, Boston refuses to go away. By the ninth inning it felt like neither team wanted to pitch anymore.
COWHERD:
But here’s the difference, Tony—Anaheim is explosive, young, emotional. Boston is old-soul stubborn. When the game slows down in extra innings, I trust the guy who’s been through a decade of wars. Croke didn’t swing like a man hoping. He swung like a man deciding.
KORNHEISER:
Oscar Trejo throws a sinker, Croke sends it into the Boston afternoon, and Fenway does what Fenway always does—it shakes. That’s a Game 1 punch to the gut for Anaheim.
COWHERD:
And that’s why Game 1 matters. Not because it decides the series—but because it tells you who can absorb chaos. Boston just told Anaheim, “You’re gonna have to beat us cleaner than that.”
KORNHEISER:
So it’s Red Sox up 1–0, everyone needs ice packs, and we do it all again tomorrow. I’ll say this: if every game in this series looks like this, nobody’s getting any sleep.
COWHERD:
And that’s October baseball at Fenway—loud, messy, dramatic, and decided by the guy who’s been there before.

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COLIN COWHERD:
Alright, let’s just say it plainly—Boston is 5–0 this postseason, and at this point they’re not playing baseball so much as setting fires and walking away calmly. This game? Nineteen to fourteen. That’s not a score, that’s a bar fight with innings.
J. PETERMAN:
Ah yes, Colin… Fenway Park on a brisk October afternoon. The air thick with destiny, roasted peanuts, and the faint scent of panic from Anaheim pitchers who knew—they knew—they were already lost. I once experienced something similar in the Balkans. Different uniforms. Same inevitability.
COWHERD:
This was chaos, and Boston loves chaos. You score fourteen runs? Great! Here’s nineteen right back. Anaheim’s offense was impressive—eighteen hits, doubles everywhere—but Boston said, “That’s adorable. Now watch this.”
PETERMAN:
And then emerged John Jordan—a man possessed. Four for four. A homer. A double. Singles like handwritten postcards from the front lines. He reached base five times, Colin. Five. Like the five stages of grief Anaheim went through by the sixth inning.
COWHERD:
Exactly. This Red Sox lineup doesn’t blink. Everybody contributes. Croke. Williams. Madigan. Lopez. It’s like one of those fancy restaurants where everything on the menu works—and the Angels ordered the entire thing.
PETERMAN:
I was particularly moved by the fourth inning. Madigan’s three-run homer—ah!—a swing so decisive it reminded me of the time I bought a hat in Lisbon without trying it on. Bold. Dangerous. Correct.
COWHERD:
That homer flipped the game, but here’s the thing—it never ended. Anaheim kept punching. Boston kept countering. It was offense stacked on offense, pitching held together with twine and optimism.
PETERMAN:
Pitching, yes… more of a suggestion, really. Arms rose, arms fell, ERAs were sacrificed to the baseball gods. Yet Boston endured. They always do. Fenway demands resilience—or it eats you alive.
COWHERD:
And that’s why Boston’s scary. They don’t need a clean game. They don’t need dominance. They just need time. Give them nine innings—or eleven—and they’ll find your weakness.
PETERMAN:
Anaheim now travels west, carrying heavy bats and heavier hearts. They have talent, yes—but Boston has momentum, that most dangerous of traveling companions.
COWHERD:
Five wins. Zero losses. Two games up. The Red Sox aren’t just winning—they’re telling the Angels, “You can score as much as you want. We’ll still be standing.”
PETERMAN:
Like explorers returning from uncharted lands, victorious and unbothered. And somewhere in Boston tonight, a man raises a glass and whispers, “Why not us?”

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COLIN COWHERD:
Alright, let’s talk about this game because this was not baseball in the traditional sense. This was twelve rounds, no judges, everybody swinging. Braves score thirteen? Giants say, “Cute.” Giants score fifteen. Welcome to San Francisco—bring a bat, not a bullpen.
LLOYD BRAUN:
COLIN—this game had everything! Momentum! Chaos! Emotional whiplash! I was watching this thinking, This is it. This is the future of sports. Why stop at nine innings? Why stop at pitching? Let’s just score forever!
COWHERD:
And here’s the takeaway: the Giants didn’t flinch. Atlanta came in hot—five NLCS trips in eight years, pedigree, confidence—and San Francisco said, “We’ve waited twelve years for this moment. You’re not ruining it.”
BRAUN:
They waited, Colin. They waited patiently. Like a man waiting for a phone call that never comes—until suddenly it does, and it’s Jeremy Dick, and he’s 4-for-6 with four RBIs and two doubles and—I mean, come on! That’s not a game, that’s a personal statement!
COWHERD:
Jeremy Dick was the best player on the field, period. No theatrics, no quotes, just hits. Every big inning, there he is. It’s why San Francisco won: when things got wild—and they did—Atlanta needed one pitch, one stop. They never got it.
BRAUN:
And Tyler Adams! That homer in the fifth—boom! Two runs, emotional damage, Giants up 8–7. I jumped out of my chair. My neighbor thought I’d won the lottery. I said, “No, worse. The Giants just took the lead.”
COWHERD:
That’s the moment. Atlanta had tied it, had momentum, had Oracle Park getting quiet—and Adams flips the whole thing. Championship teams do that. They sense hesitation and they pounce.
BRAUN:
And let’s talk about the score again—15 to 13. That’s a football score! That’s two teams saying, “Defense is optional, stress is mandatory.” Pitchers were coming in like, Who am I facing? What inning is it? Where am I?
COWHERD:
Neither bullpen covered itself in glory, but San Francisco did one thing Atlanta didn’t: they got the last big hit. And then the next one. And then another one. You don’t win playoff games by surviving—you win by overwhelming.
BRAUN:
Exactly! This game was a tidal wave. You don’t stop it, you just hope you’re standing on the right beach. And tonight, the Giants were absolutely on the right beach, waving at the Braves like, Sorry! Enjoy the view!
COWHERD:
Series isn’t over—but Game 1 tells you something. San Francisco can trade punches with Atlanta. They can win ugly. They can win loud. And when the moment called for a hero, Jeremy Dick answered without blinking.
BRAUN:
I loved it. Every run. Every hit. Every mistake. If this is the NLCS, Colin, I say—give me seven games, give me forty runs, and don’t fix a thing.
COWHERD:
Giants take Game 1, 15–13. Buckle up. This series is going to be unhinged—and that favors San Francisco.

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JAY BILAS:
Let’s start with this: this game was about execution under pressure. Strip away the noise, the runs, the insanity—this came down to who could stay poised when everything was on fire. San Francisco did. Atlanta blinked.
GEORGE COSTANZA:
Fire? Jay, this wasn’t a fire—this was a five-alarm existential crisis. Thirteen runs should be enough to win a game! Thirteen! If I score thirteen of anything in my life, I assume I’m done for the day. I go home!
BILAS:
And that’s exactly the trap Atlanta fell into. They kept scoring, but they never controlled the game. Look at the fourth inning—seven runs. That’s dominance. But championship teams don’t relax after dominance. They apply pressure relentlessly.
COSTANZA:
Relentlessly? They were up! They were comfortably up! That’s when you lean back, loosen the belt, maybe check the out-of-town scoreboard. You don’t expect the Giants to come charging back like a guy who just realized his parking meter expired!
BILAS:
San Francisco’s approach was professional. Cesar Vazquez—4 for 5, two doubles, a walk. That’s balance. That’s shot selection. He wasn’t chasing. He let the game come to him.
COSTANZA:
Of course he did. Because baseball is cruel. The calm guy always wins. Meanwhile Josh Brown comes in for Atlanta and—boom—blown save. ERA explodes. Career questions start forming. I know that look. That’s the “what am I doing with my life?” look.
BILAS:
That tenth inning tells you everything. Giants down to their final out. No panic. Manuel Hernandez gets a 1–1 fastball—mistake pitch—and he doesn’t miss it. Two-run single. That’s preparation meeting opportunity.
COSTANZA:
Final out! Jay, that’s when the Braves should already be mentally in the shower! You’re thinking about dinner plans! You’re not supposed to still be working at that point!
BILAS:
And yet, San Francisco forced Atlanta to keep working. That’s the difference between a good team and a championship-caliber team. Hernandez drove in four runs. Adams drove in three. Contributions everywhere.
COSTANZA:
Meanwhile Atlanta’s sitting there like, “We scored again—why isn’t this over?” Because it’s never over! That’s what October is! It’s anxiety in cleats!
BILAS:
Extra innings only reinforced it. Giants stayed aggressive. Vazquez doubles in the tenth. Pressure mounts. Gonzalez bends but holds. Execution.
COSTANZA:
Holds? He gives up two runs! If that’s holding, I’d hate to see collapse! But Atlanta still loses! That’s the worst part—you fail after the other guy gives you an opening!
BILAS:
And now the series is 2–0. Not because San Francisco is flashier—but because they’re tougher mentally. They don’t flinch.
COSTANZA:
Atlanta flinched, Jay. They flinched hard. And now they’ve gotta go home, look at the schedule, and realize—oh no—we still have to play these people.
BILAS:
That’s postseason baseball. Talent matters—but composure wins.
COSTANZA:
I hate composure. It’s very overrated.

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JOE BUCK:
Welcome to Anaheim, where on this October afternoon, the Angels absolutely unleashed. Final score here in Game 3 of the League Championship Series—Anaheim 17, Boston 11. And John, this game belonged to one man.
JOHN SMOLTZ:
Mike Ocampo. No question about it. This was as dominant an offensive performance as you’ll ever see in postseason baseball. Three home runs, six runs driven in, four runs scored—and every swing felt like it mattered.
BUCK:
Boston jumped early, took a brief lead, but the bottom of the first inning set the tone. Anaheim answered right back—and then the third inning happened.
SMOLTZ:
That third inning is where this game tilted hard. Bases loaded, nobody out, Marquos Philippon tries to challenge Ocampo with a fastball, and that’s just not the pitch you want to miss with. Grand slam. Ballgame changed instantly—9–4 Angels.
BUCK:
The crowd here felt it. The dugout felt it. And from that point on, Anaheim never let Boston breathe.
SMOLTZ:
Boston’s pitching simply couldn’t execute. Too many pitches left over the plate, not enough put-away stuff. When you give hitters like Ocampo, Roman, and Garcia chances, they’re going to punish mistakes—and Anaheim did that over and over.
BUCK:
Ocampo wasn’t alone. Juan Garcia with four hits and three doubles. Roman with four hits, Aguilar and Fernandez adding power. Seventeen runs on twenty-one hits—relentless pressure all afternoon.
SMOLTZ:
And credit to Anaheim for staying aggressive even with a lead. This wasn’t a team trying to hold on—they kept attacking. That’s playoff baseball when you’re desperate and dangerous.
BUCK:
Boston did their share offensively—Petro with two triples, power throughout the lineup—but every time they seemed to gain momentum, Anaheim answered right back.
SMOLTZ:
That’s deflating for a team. You score, you think you’re back in it, and suddenly you’re jogging back onto the field down four or five runs again. That wears on pitchers, defenses, everyone.
BUCK:
So the Angels stay alive. The series now stands at two games to one, Boston still leading—but momentum? It swung hard today.
SMOLTZ:
If Anaheim gets anything close to this kind of production again, this series looks very different. And for Boston, the adjustment is clear—you cannot let Ocampo beat you.
BUCK:
Mike Ocampo, the Player of the Game, etched his name into the postseason record book today. And Game 4 comes tomorrow night, right here in Anaheim.
BUCK:
For John Smoltz, I’m Joe Buck. What a wild one in Southern California.

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ESPN BASEBALL TONIGHT — 1934 NLCS GAME 3 RECAP
SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS AT ATLANTA BRAVES — 10/18/1934

JON MILLER:
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back. We are live from Truist Park in Atlanta, and the San Francisco Giants have just put on one of the most outrageous offensive performances you’ll ever see in postseason history.
JOE MORGAN:
I mean, it wasn’t just a beatdown. It was a baseball clinic. A demolition derby. A complete, utter obliteration.
MILLER:
And the man at the center of it all? Last year’s MVP, Edgar Perdomo. He goes 3-for-6 with THREE HOME RUNS, five RBIs, and three runs scored. The Giants scored 24 runs—TWENTY-FOUR—on 23 hits.
MORGAN:
And that’s the thing, Jon. It wasn’t like they got lucky. This was pure, consistent damage. You don’t get 24 runs without the whole lineup being locked in. This wasn’t a one-man show—Perdomo was the headline, but the supporting cast was screaming.
MILLER:
Atlanta struck first—Jesus Rivera with a first-inning homer. Braves up 1–0.
MORGAN:
And you’d think, “Alright, we’ve got a ballgame.” But then the Giants respond in the second inning, and that’s where the whole thing turns into a circus.
MILLER:
That second inning—Guillermo Barela hits a two-run single, and the Giants explode. The scoring just never stops.
MORGAN:
They weren’t just hitting—they were punishing. This was the kind of game where you look at the pitcher and you say, “Please, just make it through the inning.” But Atlanta couldn’t.
MILLER:
And then the 4th inning. Perdomo’s first homer of the day, a two-run shot off H. Garcia. The Braves are just trying to survive at that point.
MORGAN:
You know, when Perdomo hit that first homer, I didn’t think, “Okay, here comes three.” I thought, “Oh no, they’re about to get dismantled.”
MILLER:
And it only got worse. By the 5th inning, the Giants had five more runs, including Barela’s second homer, and suddenly it’s 14–5.
MORGAN:
At that point, it wasn’t even about winning. It was about damage control for Atlanta. Like, “How do we keep this from becoming a total embarrassment?”
MILLER:
They couldn’t. They couldn’t.
MORGAN:
And Perdomo, of course, isn’t done. His second homer comes in the 7th inning. No one is safe. No one is spared.
MILLER:
Then in the 9th inning, he finishes the hat trick—his third home run, and the Giants close it out at 24–5.
FINAL SCORE:
San Francisco Giants 24 — Atlanta Braves 5
Giants lead series 3–0
MORGAN:
Let me tell you what this is: this is a statement. This is a message. This is a team saying, “We are not just the better team — we are the dominant team.”
MILLER:
And Perdomo—last year’s MVP—just reminded everyone why he won that award. This wasn’t a performance. This was a postseason masterpiece.
MILLER:
And we’ll be back tomorrow, right here in Atlanta, for Game 4. Can the Braves stop the bleeding?
MORGAN:
At this point, Jon, they’re not trying to win. They’re trying to survive.

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The Angels were down 0–2 in this series. Dead, right? Season-on-the-line vibes. And now? It’s 2–2, and we’re staring at a best-of-three like it was destiny all along.
Let’s start here, because Michael Kay would hammer this point: this series has flipped completely. Boston came into Anaheim feeling great about themselves, up two games, thinking they just had to split and head home heroes. Instead, they ran headfirst into a buzzsaw — and Game 4 was the loudest, messiest, most unignorable proof yet that momentum is a real thing.
Sixteen runs. Sixteen.
At home.
In October.
That’s not just winning — that’s sending a message.
And the guy holding the megaphone? Carlos Guzman. This was one of those games where you’re halfway through and you go, “Wait… is this the Guzman Game?” Three hits, a homer, a triple, three runs scored, two driven in — and every one of them felt like it twisted the knife just a little more.
The turning point? Bottom of the second, two outs. Classic October moment. Brian Gosdin tries to sneak a splitter past Guzman, and bang — two-run homer, Angels up 4–2. Kay would say, “That’s the moment the building changed.” And he’d be right. From that point on, Anaheim never looked back.
Now let’s do the Bill Simmons thing for a second. This game had big “this series just changed categories” energy. Early on, you thought, Okay, Boston’s lineup is terrifying. Petro, Williams, Beltran — they’re hitting rockets everywhere. And they did score nine runs! In most playoff games, nine runs means you win by accident.
But this wasn’t most playoff games. This was one of those chaotic, pinball-machine games where every inning felt like it could spiral — and Boston’s pitching staff simply could not stop the bleeding. Gosdin was cooked early. The bullpen poured gasoline on it. By the time Anaheim dropped a six-spot in the sixth, it felt like the Angels were playing a different sport.
And it wasn’t just Guzman. This was a full lineup avalanche:
Roman going full October assassin.
Horn setting the tone at the top.
Fernandez blowing the game open.
Aguilar and Marku piling on late, just to make sure nobody was thinking about a comeback.
This wasn’t luck. This was depth. This was confidence. This was a team that realized, “Wait a second… we’re not dead.”
And now here’s the part Kay would absolutely linger on: it’s a best-of-three. That’s it. Everything that happened in Games 1 and 2? Doesn’t matter nearly as much anymore. The Angels have reset the series emotionally and mathematically. Boston still has the pedigree, still has the bats — but Anaheim has the crowd, the momentum, and now the belief.
Bill Simmons would say this is the kind of series where, ten years from now, people remember Game 4 as the hinge point. The moment when everyone realized this wasn’t Boston’s coronation — it was a fight.
Game 5 tomorrow.
Same park.
Same stakes.
And suddenly, the Angels don’t look like the team that fell behind 0–2.
They look like the team that figured it out just in time.

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San Francisco Giants: 1934 National League Champions (3rd pennant)
1916 1917 1934

COLIN COWHERD
Here’s the thing — and I’ve said this forever — great teams don’t flinch when the game gets weird. This game got real weird. Seventeen to sixteen. Pitchers melting. Scoreboards overheating. And the Giants? They didn’t blink.
You know what I saw? I saw a team that knew exactly who it was. They didn’t care about Atlanta’s crowd, their pedigree, or the idea that this was supposed to be the Braves’ year. San Francisco walked into Atlanta and said, “We’re not here to negotiate.” Four games. Sweep. Done.
And Edgar Perdomo? That’s a legacy series. This is what superstars do — they don’t just play well, they bend the series around themselves. Six homers in four games. Twelve RBI. Six runs in a single playoff game. That’s not hot — that’s historic. This wasn’t a win. This was a statement about identity.

MIKE FRANCESA
Let me tell you somethin’, okay — because people are gonna miss the big picture here. The Giants didn’t just win a series. They took it away from Atlanta. There’s a difference.
This game was a mess. Sloppy, chaotic, nobody could get an out. But in those games, you find out who’s built for October. And Atlanta? Their pitching absolutely collapsed. They had no answer. None. Sandoval couldn’t get through the second inning. Cicero couldn’t stop the bleeding. And by the time you looked up, it was already gone.
San Francisco hit everywhere in the lineup. Not just Perdomo — Adams, Valenzuela, Vazquez — up and down. That’s how you sweep a series. And now? For the first time in 17 years, they’re going to the World Series. Third pennant in franchise history. You don’t fluke your way into that.

BOB COSTAS
For all the chaos of the numbers — 33 total runs, 46 hits, a game that stretched past four hours — there was a clarity beneath it. The San Francisco Giants were the better team, and over four games, they made that unmistakable.
This final act was operatic. Edgar Perdomo authored one of the great postseason performances in franchise history — three home runs, six runs scored, and an MVP-worthy exclamation point on a dominant sweep. Records fell almost as quickly as Atlanta’s pitching options.
Seventeen years of waiting ended not with a whisper, but with a roar. The Giants did not merely survive October — they mastered it. And now, with their third pennant secured, they wait to see who will meet them on baseball’s grandest stage.

CHRIS RUSSO
Bro! BRO! What are we doing here?! Seventeen runs to sixteen?! I mean, are you kidding me?! This is an LCS clincher, not a pinball machine!
But that’s the point! The Giants won a game where nobody could pitch! You know how hard that is?! Atlanta scored sixteen runs — SIXTEEN — and still lost! That tells you everything!
Perdomo was unconscious! Adams? Huge! Valenzuela? Huge! They just kept coming! Atlanta’s scoring, the Giants score right back! Over and over! That’s a team that’s locked in, man!
And now it’s a sweep! A SWEEP! In ATLANTA! For the first time in 17 years, the Giants are going to the World Series — third pennant ever — and you can’t say a word about flukes or luck or matchups. They steamrolled the league!

THE BOTTOM LINE
Seventeen years later.
Four games.
One unforgettable night.
The Giants didn’t sneak into the World Series — they kicked the door down. And now they wait, rested and confident, watching Anaheim and Boston beat each other up, knowing that the longest wait in franchise history is finally over.
October has its pennant winner.
San Francisco is back where it belongs.

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COLIN COWHERD
This is why I always say: series don’t start until somebody wins on the road — and Boston hasn’t done that yet.
Think about this. The Angels go into Boston, they lose the first two games. Everyone’s got the narrative ready: “Too young, too shaky, not built for October.” Then they come home… and suddenly, the series flips completely. Three straight wins. And not quiet wins — slugfests. Confidence wins.
Anaheim has become the aggressor. They’re swinging early, they’re attacking Boston’s pitching, and they’re playing like the team that expects to win. Benito Aguilar going 4-for-5 with three doubles? That’s not luck — that’s comfort. That’s a lineup that knows it has answers.
Now the pressure? All of it is on Boston. Game 6 back at Fenway, season on the line, and Anaheim only needs one more.

MICHAEL KAY
You can feel the momentum shift in this series — you really can.
The Angels walked out of Fenway down two games, but they never looked rattled. They come back to Anaheim, they feed off the crowd, and they flat-out outslug Boston in three straight games. Twelve runs in Game 5, sixteen the day before — this lineup is relentless.
Benito Aguilar was sensational. Three doubles, three runs driven in, setting the tone all afternoon. And then there’s Ricky Roman — one swing, a three-run homer in the third inning, and suddenly Angel Stadium is shaking again.
This series has completely turned. Anaheim now leads it three games to two, and they’re heading back to Boston knowing this: they don’t need to be perfect — they just need one more win. Boston, meanwhile, has to beat a team that suddenly looks very comfortable in October.

THE BIG PICTURE
Anaheim lost the first two games.
They’ve won the next three.
And now, with the American League pennant within reach, the Angels have all the confidence — and Boston has all the pressure.
Game 6 at Fenway is looming.
And for the Red Sox, there’s no margin left.

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Anaheim Angels: 1934 American League Champions (1st AL pennant)

COLIN COWHERD
This is what belief looks like.
The Angels lose the first two games in Boston, and the easy take was, “Nice story, not ready.” But great teams don’t panic — they adjust. Anaheim went home, fixed what was broken, and then came back to Fenway and finished the job.
They didn’t steal this pennant. They took it.
Ricky Roman didn’t just play well — he owned the series. Over .530 at the plate, five homers, seventeen RBIs. That’s not a hot streak. That’s a superstar announcing himself. And now the Angels — a franchise that’s never been here before — are four wins from a title.
That’s how fast things change in sports.

MIKE FRANCESA
Let me tell you something — this is as impressive a comeback as you’re gonna see in a postseason.
You lose the first two games on the road, you’re dead most of the time. Dead. Anaheim wins four straight, including two at Fenway, and they did it by outscoring, out-hitting, and outlasting Boston.
Roman was the difference. Period. When the series needed a centerpiece, he became one. And the Angels lineup, top to bottom, just kept coming. Boston scored eleven runs and still lost by seven — that tells you everything about how overwhelming this became.
This wasn’t luck. This was dominance after Game 2.

CHRIS RUSSO
I mean, come on! Nobody saw this coming!
First time EVER! Ever! The Angels are going to the World Series! They walk into Fenway, the place is buzzing, Red Sox fans thinking it’s over — and Anaheim drops eighteen runs on them?!
Roman was unconscious. Garcia, Aguilar, Marquis — everybody’s hitting. This wasn’t one guy, this was a lineup avalanche. And how about the guts it takes to lose the first two, then just say, “Alright, we’ll win the next four.”
That’s not normal. That’s special.

BOB COSTAS
There is a certain symmetry to the way this happened.
Anaheim’s season has been about resilience — about absorbing pressure, learning quickly, and responding decisively. After falling behind two games to none, they recalibrated, reclaimed the series on their home field, and then delivered the final blow in Boston with authority.
Ricky Roman’s performance will endure in franchise history: not merely for the numbers, but for the timing. When the Angels needed a defining figure, one emerged. And now, for the first time, this organization steps onto the sport’s grandest stage.
The Angels and the Giants.
A first appearance versus a long-awaited return.
The World Series awaits — and Anaheim has already rewritten its history.

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1934 World Series

The Giants have won one title (1916).
The Angels are in the World Series for the first time.

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BOB COSTAS:
Game 1 of the 1934 World Series belonged to the Anaheim Angels, who announced themselves on the sport’s biggest stage with a poised, comprehensive 7–4 victory over the San Francisco Giants at Oracle Park. For a franchise making its first-ever World Series appearance, this was not a tentative opening — it was confident, aggressive, and controlled.
The Angels chipped away early, seized the lead in the middle innings, and never relinquished it, quieting a crowd of nearly forty-five thousand with timely hitting and sturdy pitching. Most importantly, they did exactly what road teams dream of in a Game 1: they dictated the pace.

JOE MORGAN:
Bob, what jumps out right away is how balanced Anaheim was. This wasn’t one big inning or one guy carrying them. They kept putting pressure on San Francisco — running the bases, taking extra bags, forcing the Giants to execute perfectly. And the Giants just couldn’t do that.
Anaheim stole four bases, had extra-base hits all over the field, and every time San Francisco scored, Anaheim answered back. That’s championship baseball.

COSTAS:
The turning point came in the fifth inning, when catcher Asllan Marku launched a solo home run off Ed Pritchett to give Anaheim a 3–2 lead. It was not the longest ball of the night, but it may have been the most significant — a moment that shifted momentum permanently.
Marku finished with two hits and two runs driven in, but he was emblematic of a lineup that simply refused to give away at-bats.

MORGAN:
And Bob, look at Danny Cespedes on the mound. He gave up only three hits in nearly seven innings. The Giants had traffic — five walks — but they never squared him up consistently. That tells you his stuff was lively, and more importantly, he wasn’t afraid to challenge hitters.
When you’re a road starter in Game 1, your job is to keep your team in control emotionally. Cespedes did exactly that. The Giants never felt like they were about to break the game open.

COSTAS:
San Francisco, for its part, struggled mightily to generate offense. Four hits over nine innings is a stunning statistic for a club that dominated the National League throughout the season. They had opportunities — runners left on base, chances with men in scoring position — but Anaheim’s pitching staff consistently won those confrontations.
Even when the Giants closed to within a run in the sixth, Anaheim responded with another surge, capped by a two-run eighth inning that effectively sealed the outcome.

MORGAN:
That’s where postseason experience — or the lack of fear — really shows. Anaheim didn’t tighten up. They kept attacking. Ricky Roman, Billy Horn, Carlos Guzman — everybody contributed something. That’s how you steal home-field advantage.
Now the pressure flips. Game 2 becomes enormous for San Francisco, because you don’t want to head south down 0–2 against a team that’s clearly playing loose and confident.

COSTAS:
So, on a cool October afternoon by the bay, the Angels take Game 1 and, with it, the psychological edge. Anaheim leads the World Series one game to none — four wins away from completing one of the most remarkable championship runs this sport has ever seen.
Game 2 awaits, and suddenly, the Giants find themselves responding — not dictating — in their own ballpark.

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BOB COSTAS:
If Game 1 announced the Anaheim Angels to the baseball world, Game 2 stunned it. A World Series contest that featured 27 runs, 32 hits, eight home runs, and a finish that left forty-four thousand at Oracle Park staring in disbelief — and somehow, through all of that chaos, Anaheim walks away again.
The Angels defeat the Giants 14–13, taking a commanding two-games-to-none lead in this World Series, and they do it in a fashion that defies every conventional October script.
JOE MORGAN:
Bob, this was one of those games where you throw the book out the window. Pitching? Gone. Matchups? Gone. It turned into survival baseball, and Anaheim survived better.
The Giants did almost everything right offensively. Bill Valenzuela goes five-for-five, two home runs, a double — that’s one of the greatest hitting performances you’ll ever see in a World Series game. And it still wasn’t enough.
COSTAS:
San Francisco led 8–4 after four innings. They led again later. Every time it looked as though momentum had swung decisively in their favor, Anaheim found another response. Triples from Juan Garcia, line drives from Asllan Marku, constant pressure from Cesar Guzman — it was relentless.
But the defining moment arrived in the eighth inning.
MORGAN:
That’s when Benito Aguilar steps up. Two men on, one out, and he gets a pitch he can handle. He doesn’t miss it. Three-run home run, and just like that, the Angels go from trailing to leading.
That’s a big-league swing in the biggest moment. And Bob, that’s what great teams do — they don’t panic, they wait for their pitch.
COSTAS:
Even after that, the Giants were not finished. They continued to fight, scratching and clawing to the final out. But Anaheim’s bullpen — battered though it was — held just enough. When the last Giant was retired, it felt less like the end of a game and more like the end of a marathon.
This was not clean. It was not elegant. But it was decisive.
MORGAN:
And here’s the part that worries San Francisco. You score thirteen runs. Your designated hitter has one of the greatest games in World Series history. You still lose. That’s deflating.
Meanwhile, Anaheim heads home up 2–0, having already done the two hardest things in a World Series: win on the road twice.
COSTAS:
So the Angels leave San Francisco with control of the series and with a sense of inevitability beginning to form. The Giants will tell you the series hasn’t started yet — and technically, they’re right.
But psychologically? Anaheim has seized something far more valuable than home-field advantage.
Game 3 awaits in Southern California, and suddenly, this World Series has taken on a very steep angle for San Francisco.