National Baseball League

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Harry Doyle (Indians announcer, measured but incredulous):
“Well… folks, here we go again. Game 5 at Oracle Park, Giants 14, Indians 10. Cleveland scored ten runs, hit the long ball, but it wasn’t enough. The Giants now lead the series 3-2. And for Cleveland, this has got to hurt—three games in a row on the West Coast, and the Indians lose them all.”
“Reynaldo Mendez with two home runs, five RBIs—he was phenomenal tonight—but the Giants offense? Just relentless. Every time Cleveland tried to rally, San Francisco answered. This series is a war.”

Chris “Mad Dog” Russo (Giants fan, ecstatic):
“War? Harry, this was a battleground and the Giants came out on top. Ten runs from Cleveland, fourteen from us! And do you know who made it happen? Bill Valenzuela, Joey Fields, David Fuentes—everybody contributing! That three-run homer by Valenzuela in the third? Game changer. BOOM! Giants take the lead and never looked back.”

Doyle:
“Cleveland’s offense was hardly silent. Hollander with four hits, Mendez clobbered two homers, Walters and Holloway driving in runs… they hung in there. But when your pitching staff gives up seven runs to start? Against a team hitting like the Giants tonight? That’s a tall order.”

Russo:
“Tall order? That’s an understatement. The Indians tried, sure—but San Francisco refused to let them dictate the pace. Campbell, Dick, Perdomo, Valenzuela, Fuentes… they all had at least a hit, and Fields chipped in as well. This isn’t luck, this is Giants baseball in October.”

Doyle:
“And don’t forget, this was a long, exhausting game—3 hours and 18 minutes of back-and-forth slugging. The Indians never quit, but they’ve now lost three straight in San Francisco. Heading back to Cleveland, Game 6 is suddenly a must-win to stay alive.”

Russo:
“Exactly. And Harry, let me be clear: the momentum is swinging HARD to the Giants. Three straight wins at home, they lead the series 3-2. Cleveland will have a loud crowd Thursday, sure, but the Giants know how to score in bunches. Game 6? Oh, it’s going to be fireworks. Buckle up, everyone.”

Doyle (sighing, half-admiringly):
“Fireworks indeed. This is a World Series no one predicted. One thing is certain: Cleveland can’t afford to make another mistake. Otherwise, San Francisco is just a win away from the championship.”

Russo (smirking):
“And we like it that way, Harry. We like it that way.” ⚾��

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COLIN COWHERD
Big-picture, momentum, psychology guy voice
“Okay, so let’s stop pretending this series has anything to do with pitching matchups or platoon splits anymore. This is about environment. Six games, six home wins. That’s not coincidence — that’s gravity.
Cleveland didn’t just win Game 6, they overwhelmed San Francisco. Twenty-one hits. Barrios, Walters, Amero — this lineup isn’t trying to be cute anymore. They’re hunting early, they’re hunting fastballs, and they’re daring you to stop them.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth for Indians fans: history doesn’t care how you got to Game 7. It only cares what you do in it. Cleveland’s chasing a fourth title. San Francisco’s chasing legitimacy — a second banner that turns them from ‘good franchise’ into ‘real one.’
Tomorrow night? Pressure doesn’t sit evenly. It’s heavier on the team that’s been here more.”

MIKE FRANCESA
Measured, authoritative, slightly weary
“Alright, let’s slow this down a little bit.
Cleveland did exactly what they had to do — no more, no less. You’re at home, your season’s on the line, and you come out and punch the Giants right in the mouth in the first two innings. That’s how you force a Game 7.
Barrios was the best player on the field, end of discussion. Walters gave you length in the lineup, Amero was everywhere — but don’t lose sight of Soto. Seven innings, absorbed damage, didn’t panic. That matters in October.
Now — and this is important — none of this carries over. Game 7 is not Game 6 with better ratings. It’s its own sport. Whoever handles the moment better tomorrow night wins the World Series. Period.
And right now? The only pattern that matters is this: the home team hasn’t lost. Until they do.”

CHRIS “MAD DOG” RUSSO
Rapid-fire, emotional, Giants-leaning panic
“I’m tellin’ ya right now — I hated this game the minute it started! HATED it! Pritchett gives up ten hits before I even finish my coffee, the crowd’s goin’ bananas, and suddenly it’s 8-1 and I’m already thinkin’ about tomorrow!
But here’s the thing — the Giants still scored SIX runs! Wagner, Adams, Perdomo — they didn’t roll over! This wasn’t some lifeless performance, Mikey, it just snowballed!
And now you’ve got the biggest Game 7 these two franchises have ever played against each other. Cleveland’s thinkin’ about banners, San Francisco’s thinkin’ about belonging.
I’m nervous. I admit it. But I’ll tell ya this — if the Giants win tomorrow night in Cleveland? That’s a franchise-defining win forever.”

HARRY DOYLE
Pure baseball poetry, voice of the Indians
“Well folks… we’re goin’ to Game Seven.
The Indians came out swinging like a team that knew there was no tomorrow — and decided to create one anyway. From the first inning on, Jacobs Field felt like it was leaning forward, urging every ball just a little bit farther.
Antonio Barrios had one of those nights you tell your grandkids about. Kevin Walters sent a roar through the park that never really stopped. And when the final out settled into leather, nobody left their seats — because nobody wanted this night to end.
Tomorrow… someone writes history.
The Indians chase a fourth crown.
The Giants chase their second — and maybe something bigger.
One game.
One park.
One banner.
We’ll see you then.”

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BOB COSTAS — GAME 7 WORLD SERIES PREVIEW (1935)

Tomorrow night at Jacobs Field, baseball will stage one of its oldest and most unforgiving rituals: a Game Seven.
Six games have been played in this World Series, and all six have been won by the home team. That pattern, tidy and compelling, suggests order. But Game Sevens exist precisely to defy patterns. They are the sport’s reminder that precedent is not prophecy.
For Cleveland, this moment arrives weighted with legacy. The Indians stand on the brink of a fourth World Series championship, a distinction that would place this club among the enduring pillars of the American League. Yet history also lingers uneasily here. Cleveland has been close before, and not all of those memories are comforting. Triumph would affirm continuity. Defeat would reopen old scars.
For San Francisco, the stakes are different, but no less profound. The Giants seek only their second World Series title, but what they are really chasing is permanence — the kind of win that alters how a franchise is spoken about, how it is remembered. A victory on the road, in a hostile park, in a Game Seven, would not merely earn a championship. It would define an era.
The series itself has unfolded as controlled chaos. Offense has surged. Pitching has bent, but rarely held. Heroes have emerged nightly — Mendez, Barrios, Walters, Valenzuela — only to be replaced the next evening by someone else. It has been a World Series less about dominance than about survival.
And now, everything compresses.
Tomorrow, there will be no margins. No tomorrow to plan for. Every managerial decision will feel heavier. Every baserunner will feel larger. Every out will sound louder.
The crowd at Jacobs Field will arrive believing history is on its side. The Giants will arrive knowing history does not care.
That is the quiet, brutal elegance of a Game Seven.
Two teams.
One night.
And when it ends, one story will be told forever — while the other will always be told beginning with the words, “What if?”

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San Francisco Giants: 1935 World Series Champions (2nd title)
1916 1935

COLIN COWHERD
“This is why we watch sports. This is why we suffer through sports.
Cleveland did everything right for eight innings. Controlled the game. Up 6-3. Crowd rocking. Momentum? Completely theirs. And then — bang — seven runs in the ninth, season over, trophy gone, history flipped upside down.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: dynasties are built on moments like this, and curses are born the same way. The Giants didn’t just win a World Series — they took Cleveland’s soul tonight. On the road. In Game 7. Against a team that thought it was safe.
San Francisco waited nineteen years for this. Nineteen. And they didn’t win it politely. They ripped it out of the ground in front of 36,000 stunned people.
For Cleveland? Four straight World Series appearances. Four straight losses. That’s not bad luck anymore. That’s a pattern. And patterns change franchises.”

MIKE FRANCESA
(Low, deliberate, heavy)
“This is one of those games that’s going to sit with Cleveland for a very long time.
You’re up 6-3. You’re at home. You’ve won every home game in the series. And you still lose the World Series. That doesn’t happen often — but when it does, it defines eras.
Give San Francisco credit. They didn’t panic. They grinded. They waited. And when Cleveland finally cracked — just a little — it turned into an avalanche.
Perdomo was enormous. Valenzuela delivered again. But the real story? Cleveland couldn’t finish the job. They needed a run or two in the last three innings. They couldn’t get them.
Now the numbers are brutal: four World Series losses in their last four appearances. That’s not narrative — that’s fact.
And fair or not, this franchise will wear it.”

CHRIS RUSSO
(Rapid-fire, emotional, half-shouting)
“I DON’T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST SAW. I mean — I’m WATCHIN’ it, but I don’t BELIEVE IT!
Seven runs! SEVEN! In the ninth inning of a GAME SEVEN — ON THE ROAD?! Are you kiddin’ me?!
This is one of the great choke jobs in World Series history. I don’t care who that offends. You cannot let that happen. You just can’t. Up 6-3 at home in the late innings and you let it get away!
And from the Giants’ perspective — oh my GOD. Nineteen years of waiting, and you win it like that? That’s legend stuff! That’s the kind of title people talk about a hundred years later.
For Cleveland fans? This is torture. Absolute torture. You’re not just losing — you’re losing in new, creative, emotionally destructive ways!”

HARRY DOYLE (CLEVELAND RADIO)
(Quiet at first… then steady, wounded professionalism)
“Well… I don’t quite know how to say this, folks.
The Cleveland Indians were up 6-3, only a few outs away from a 4th title.
And now… the San Francisco Giants are celebrating on our field.
Seven runs in the ninth inning — the kind you don’t forget. The kind you wish you could. Edgar Perdomo with the big blows. The crowd here at Jacobs Field… silent. Just stunned.
I’ve seen a lot of baseball. I’ve never seen one turn this fast.
The Giants have their second World Series title. Cleveland will have a long winter ahead.
For those of you listening at home… I’m sorry. I truly am.
Final score from Jacobs Field:
San Francisco 13… Cleveland 6.
Good night, everybody.”

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1935 WS Summary

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Bob Costas — Legacy Wrap-Up, 1935 World Series

There are World Series decided by singular moments, and there are others defined by a slow accumulation of truths.
The 1935 World Series belongs firmly in the latter category.
For San Francisco, this championship is not merely a triumph of talent, but of patience. Nineteen years had passed since their first title, and in that span there were close calls, strong teams, and lingering questions about whether this franchise would ever again rise to the sport’s summit. This club answered them emphatically — not with dominance wire to wire, but with resilience. They lost early, absorbed heavy blows in Cleveland, regrouped at home, and then summoned the most decisive inning of the season when the stakes were absolute. Seven runs in the ninth of a tied Game Seven is not randomness; it is nerve, preparation, and belief converging.
The Giants did not win this series because Cleveland failed. They won it because, when the championship was there to be claimed, they seized it.
For Cleveland, the reckoning is more complicated, and more painful. This marks the fourth consecutive World Series appearance that ends without a title. Yet it would be unfair — and inaccurate — to reduce this loss to a collapse or a single fatal mistake. The Indians were not protecting a lead in the late innings of Game Seven. They were in a dead heat. What doomed them was absence, not error: no runs in the seventh, eighth, or ninth innings of the final game, while their opponent surged forward.
History often remembers only outcomes, not context. In time, this series may be distilled to a single line — “San Francisco wins in seven.” But those who watched will recall that Cleveland stood on equal footing deep into the final night, and that the difference between champions and runners-up was not opportunity, but conversion.
So the legacy of the 1935 World Series rests on a quiet but enduring lesson. Championships are not taken early; they are claimed late. The Giants understood that. The Indians, once again, learned it the hard way.
And in the end, San Francisco’s second title does more than crown a season — it closes a nineteen-year chapter of waiting, while Cleveland’s story remains unfinished, suspended between excellence and fulfillment, still searching for the final inning that history demands.

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Mike Francesa & Chris “Mad Dog” Russo — Is Cleveland Cursed?

Russo:
MIKE! You can’t tell me this isn’t a curse! You can’t! Four straight World Series losses! FOUR! Different teams, different years, different ways — blowouts, comebacks, late collapses, now a seven-run ninth inning in a tie game! If that’s not cursed, what are we even doin’ here?!
Francesa:
Oh stop it. Stop it with the nonsense. Cursed? Please. This isn’t the Bambino, this isn’t goats, this isn’t voodoo dolls. This is baseball. They didn’t hit when they had to hit. End of story.
Russo:
Mike, they didn’t score in the last three innings of Game Seven! Three innings! At home! With a title sittin’ right there! You’re tellin’ me that’s just “baseball”?
Francesa:
Yes! That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you. You know why? Because the Giants did score. They didn’t wait for lightning to strike — they made it strike. Cleveland had runners, Cleveland had chances, Cleveland didn’t cash in. That’s not a curse, that’s execution.
Russo:
But it keeps happening, Mike! That’s my point! You go back — different rosters, different managers — same ending! You get to the doorstep and the door slams in your face every single time!
Francesa:
Because getting there is hard, and finishing is harder. You don’t get a trophy for being “almost.” You get a trophy for being better in the last inning of the season. And Cleveland wasn’t.
Russo:
You don’t think it’s in their heads? You don’t think by the ninth inning they’re thinkin’, “Here we go again”?
Francesa:
No. I think by the ninth inning they were facing a team that was calmer, sharper, and more aggressive. That’s not psychological baggage — that’s competitive edge.
Russo:
So you’re tellin’ the fans — FOUR losses in a row — “Ahh, don’t worry about it”?
Francesa:
I’m tellin’ the fans this: cursed teams don’t keep getting to the World Series. Bad teams don’t get that close. The only thing Cleveland hasn’t done is finish. When they do, nobody will remember the four losses — just the one they won.
Russo:
I don’t know, Mike… four straight scars? That leaves a mark.
Francesa:
It leaves motivation. And next time, if they want to stop the conversation, they’ll have to score in the last three innings of a Game Seven. That’s how you end myths — not by talkin’ about curses.
Russo:
…Alright, alright, but I’m tellin’ ya — this one felt different.
Francesa:
Every loss always does.

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CLEVELAND (Plain Dealer / Press-style headline)
“AGONY AGAIN: INDIANS’ NINTH-INNING COLLAPSE HANDS SERIES TO GIANTS”
Another Game 7 slips away as Cleveland comes up empty when it mattered most
Subhead vibe: heavy, wounded, history-aware. Words like again, collapse, haunting, empty all over the page.

SAN FRANCISCO (Chronicle-style headline)
“GIANTS OF OCTOBER: SAN FRANCISCO STUNS CLEVELAND, CLAIMS WORLD SERIES”
Late rally crowns Giants champions in unforgettable Game 7
Subhead vibe: triumphant, myth-making, destiny-tinged. This is about legacy, nerves, and “championship DNA.”

Same game.
Two cities.
One sees pain repeating itself.
The other sees history fulfilled.

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MIKE:
Alright, let’s start where everybody in this town is bleeding from the eyes — the New York Yankees. Seventy-two and ninety. Dead last. Not “oh, they missed a Wild Card,” not “step back year.” Dead. Last. In a division that wasn’t exactly Murderers’ Row behind Tampa.
They were supposed to build. Supposed to creep up. Instead they fell off a cliff like Thelma and Louise. You tell me how that happens.
MAD DOG:
Mike, it’s EMBARRASSING. EMBARRASSING! This is not a rebuilding team, this is not an expansion team, this is the NEW YORK YANKEES finishing 36 games out! That’s not a gap, that’s a different ZIP CODE!
You can’t sell hope anymore. You can’t say “next year.” They’ve been saying next year since Hoover was president!
MIKE:
And the worst part? There’s no mystery. No bad luck story. They just weren’t good. They didn’t hit. They didn’t pitch. They didn’t defend. That’s organizational failure, Dog.
MAD DOG:
Now let’s talk about Boston, because they don’t escape either. Eighty-seven wins, Mike. Eighty-seven! And you’re sitting at home because Texas beats you by ONE GAME.
That’s a killer. That’s a “you remember this season forever” kind of miss.
MIKE:
Yeah, but here’s the difference — Boston’s pain is respectable pain. They’re right there. Yankees’ pain is existential. Boston lost a couple games in April, a bullpen blowup here or there — boom, season over.
New York? New York never even got on the runway.

MIKE:
Now let’s get to the top, because this is where the league separates from the noise.
Anaheim: 116–46.
Cleveland: 115–47.
Tampa Bay: 108–54.
That’s not coincidence. That’s not cyclical luck. That’s power structure.
MAD DOG:
Mike, these are the same three teams over and over and over again! Anaheim just won the World Series two years ago, Cleveland lives at 110 wins, Tampa’s basically a machine!
You don’t “upset” these teams. You survive them. Maybe.
MIKE:
Anaheim at 116 wins and the top seed — no drama, no wobble, in position to perhaps win another World Series. That tells you everything. Cleveland right behind them, like a shark that smells blood after what happened in that Game 7 collapse.
And Tampa? Tampa’s the quiet killer. 1933 World Series champions. They win the East by twenty games and nobody even notices.

MAD DOG:
Now I LOVE this Wild Card slate, Mike.
Baltimore in Houston — first time since 1924! That’s a STORY. That’s fresh blood! Baltimore fans don’t even know what round this is!
MIKE:
Yeah but they’re walking into Houston, and Houston’s been here before. That’s not an easy welcome back to relevance.
MAD DOG:
And then Texas at Tampa — that’s brutal. Texas wins 88 games, feels good about itself, and boom: “Congratulations, here’s Tampa Bay.” That’s like winning a raffle and the prize is dental surgery.

MIKE:
Before we wrap, I gotta say this: Minnesota and Detroit. Forty-eight wins. Forty-seven wins.
Dog, I know relegation doesn’t exist — but if it did?
MAD DOG:
SEND ‘EM DOWN! SEND ‘EM DOWN! Mike, these teams are historically bad. They’re not rebuilding, they’re not retooling — they’re LOST.
You can’t have teams losing 115 games in a league with this much money and this much structure. It drags the whole thing down.
MIKE:
They’re not even speed bumps. They’re sinkholes.

MIKE (closing):
So here’s the American League in 1936, plain and simple:
The elite stayed elite
The middle got squeezed
The Yankees hit rock bottom
And the postseason? It runs straight through Anaheim, Cleveland, and Tampa Bay — in that order.

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BOB COSTAS:
When you look at the 1936 National League, it’s immediately clear that we are in the midst of a historic, almost unprecedented season—and the numbers bear that out. Let’s start with the West Division, where history has been made.
San Francisco Giants, 125–37. That’s not a misprint. That’s one hundred and twenty-five wins, a new National League record, surpassing the 1922 Mets’ 122-win mark. To win .772 of your games in a modern schedule is extraordinary, a testament to consistency, depth, and dominance. The Giants are the defending World Series champions and are coming off last season’s triumph with no intention of relinquishing the crown. Everything about this club—from pitching to bullpen management to a lineup that can punish mistakes at every turn—screams “repeat contender.”
Behind them in the West, the Colorado Rockies at 92–70 are a strong ball club, but there’s a nearly 33-game gap. The Rockies will be fighting to survive in the postseason, but the Giants’ regular-season mastery makes them heavy favorites.

Turning to the Central Division, the St. Louis Cardinals have reaffirmed their status as perennial contenders, finishing 109–53, the clear #2 seed. St. Louis has the pedigree, the postseason experience, and the roster balance to challenge for a rematch against San Francisco in the NLCS. The Pirates sneak into the Wild Card at 87–75, but the Cardinals are clearly the team to beat in the Central.
And yet, the rest of the division is weaker. The Cubs, at 67–95, have now failed to break 70 wins for nine consecutive seasons. It’s a franchise in a prolonged slump, a cautionary tale about rebuilding—or failing to rebuild—in a league where the top is relentless.

In the East Division, the Washington Nationals top the division at 88–74, a solid record but one that highlights just how top-heavy the NL has become. They are the only team in the East over .500 by a meaningful margin, and yet, by historical standards, this is a mediocre record for a division winner. The Nationals will carry a chip on their shoulder, eager to avenge prior playoff exits. The Miami Marlins, 83–79, have made a feisty return to the postseason, while the Mets’ 74–88 finish mirrors the woes of New York’s other major-league franchise, the Yankees, albeit on the National League side.

As we consider the Wild Card matchups:
Pittsburgh visits Colorado. The Pirates are back in the playoffs for the first time since 1930. The Rockies, in their first postseason since 1923, offer an intriguing contrast of new energy versus historical hunger.
Miami visits Washington. The Marlins’ 83 wins may not seem dominant, but this is a scrappy team, a side that could disrupt expectations in a short series.

And then there’s the tail of the league, where the Dodgers (60–102) and Diamondbacks (56–106) are in clear tanking territory. Their struggles underscore the extreme gap between the league’s top and bottom this season—a stark reminder that baseball’s competitive balance is not evenly distributed, even in a 1936 world with modern-style scheduling.

In summary:
The 1936 National League is defined by record-breaking dominance at the top, particularly from San Francisco, with a clear hierarchy forming behind them. St. Louis and Washington are formidable, playoff-ready squads, while Miami and Pittsburgh inject drama and unpredictability. The rest? Well, they are trying to survive.
In a sense, this season is baseball distilled: historic excellence, postseason storylines, and the cruel arithmetic of wins and losses that separate champions from pretenders. And as always, when the Giants take the field in October, you can bet the National League is about to witness a masterclass in dominance.

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COLIN COWHERD:
So let me get this straight.
Texas scores FIVE runs in the first inning…
…and still loses by fourteen.
That tells you everything about Tampa Bay — and everything about Texas.
This game was over before it was competitive, and then it became something else entirely: a message.
Let’s start big picture, because that’s what I do.
Tampa Bay hit TEN home runs. TEN.
In a playoff game.
That’s not variance. That’s not luck. That’s who they are.
This is the fourth straight year Tampa Bay has been a real October team, and what do real October teams do? They don’t panic. They absorb punches, and then they counter with a sledgehammer.
Texas lands the first punch — boom, 5–0 — and Tampa responds with EIGHT runs in the second inning like, “Cute. Now sit down.”
And the star of the show?
Steve Kendrick.
Five-for-six.
Two homers.
A triple.
Five RBIs.
Four runs scored.
That’s not a hot night. That’s a career-defining playoff performance.
You know how I always say: great teams have players who turn moments into resumes?
That’s Kendrick. This game is going to live on his baseball card forever.
And it wasn’t just Kendrick. That’s the scary part.
Crismond: two homers, four RBIs
Gama: two homers, four RBIs
C. Smith: two homers
Everyone ate
This was a team flex. Tampa didn’t just beat Texas — they embarrassed the entire concept of pitching depth.
Texas used five pitchers and none of them survived. One of them had a Game Score of ONE. That’s not playoff baseball, that’s batting practice with consequences.
Now let’s talk about Texas, because somebody has to.
This is the danger of being a good-but-not-great team. You win 88 games, you feel validated, and then you walk into a stadium with a real contender and realize you’re playing a different sport.
Texas isn’t bad. They’re just not built for this. Their pitching staff cracked immediately, and once it cracked, it shattered.
This wasn’t nerves. This was exposure.
And here’s the takeaway — the thing people will talk about tomorrow:
Tampa Bay didn’t even pitch well.
Their starter gave up seven runs and they still won by fourteen. Why? Because elite offenses erase mistakes. Good teams need everything to go right. Great teams don’t.
That’s why Tampa keeps showing up in October. That’s why Anaheim and Cleveland are waiting. And that’s why Texas is already in trouble.
Game 1 goes to Tampa Bay.
But more importantly?
The psychological edge is gone.
Texas knows it now.
And Tampa made sure everyone else did too.
This series didn’t start.
It got claimed. 💣⚾️