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On Wednesday night, a team from the AL West won the World Series. That team possesses more long-term value than any other organization in baseball. On Thursday, a rival team from the AL West agreed to contract terms with Justin Upton. It’s hard to see how the Angels might knock the Astros off of their perch, but, I guess, of course it would be hard, given what the Astros just did this past month. The Angels didn’t want to give up. They don’t want to concede the future, which you couldn’t in good conscience do, as long as you’re paying Mike Trout.

This is newsworthy only for the answer it provides. It was unclear whether Upton was going to opt out from his remaining four years, worth $88.5 million. It was known there was a chance he could stick around. Now stick around, he will, with the Angels adding on another year, and another $17.5 million. It’s not quite that simple — the Angels have also made the five years slightly backloaded. But the sides have agreed to turn a possible four-year commitment into a five-year commitment. That was all Upton needed to get in order to forego another round of free agency. The terms are agreeable. This is neither wildly good, nor horribly bad.

So then. Why did the Angels want to keep Upton in place? Because he can do this to the occasional baseball.

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Look, I don’t want to dwell on this too much. I’m not sure there’s anywhere to take it, and I’m a natural skeptic with these theories, anyway. I’m not sure why the World Series baseball would feel unusually slick, and, even if it’s true that it did, well, both teams got the same baseballs. You adjust and you deal. The Astros won one more game than the Dodgers did. Every single baseball game is played under its own unique conditions. The Astros are the rightful champions, and the Dodgers are the rightful runners-up.

But there’s always going to be that what-if element. It would be there anyway. What if Clayton Kershaw started Game 7, instead of Yu Darvish? What if Cody Bellinger had actually walked off Game 2? What if Yulieski Gurriel had been suspended immediately, instead of having it delayed until 2018? What if a million things. Baseball seldom makes it clean. What if there truly was something weird about the ball? What could’ve happened if there weren’t?

There’s no closure to be found through entertaining these questions. The games will never be replayed, and the Astros will stand as the 2017 champs forever. I just wonder. I see the argument against the ball being different. I made it just the other day! And yet, I’m not sure how to explain Brad Peacock.

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Symbolism is useful, but it’s also overused. The Astros just won the World Series, and George Springer just won the World Series MVP. Are there ways in which Springer is a symbol for what the Astros are, and for what they’ve achieved? Sure, if you need him to be. He’s a good young player. Homegrown. Seems like a leader. Thrived on the biggest stage. Springer could serve as a symbol, because he is great, and the Astros are great. Look how easy this is!

But while it’s appropriate that Springer won the award, I don’t think that’s because the Astros made a point of following his lead, or anything. I don’t think the Astros made themselves in George Springer’s image, any more than they made themselves in Jose Altuve’s. A winning team is a collection of a whole lot of talent. It’s appropriate that Springer won the award because of this.

You thought you were seeing a lot of this before. You haven’t seen anything yet. You’re going to hear about this from your dentist.

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A few hours from now, Yu Darvish will throw the first pitch of Game 7 of this year’s World Series. Shortly thereafter — or, less shortly thereafter, if the Astros are lucky — Lance McCullers will take the mound. I don’t need to tell you what Game 7 means. Nobody does. It’s plainly evident: This game is everything. It’s everything that anyone plays for.

Because of the stakes, and because there’s no tomorrow, patterns you might be used to no longer apply. Both teams will employ an all-hands-on-deck approach, hoping for sufficient adrenaline to counteract fatigue. Darvish, of course, will want to go as long as he can. The same goes for McCullers. They’ve probably both dreamed of going the distance. But that’s almost certainly not going to happen. The Dodgers and Astros are likely to dip into their bullpens. And that’s where it gets extra fun.

Both teams have their full complement of arms. The Dodgers might have more faith in their relievers than the Astros do, but the Astros’ relievers also ought to be more rested. Yet there’s an additional twist. It’s hard to find a writer who doesn’t expect to see Clayton Kershaw. It’s just as hard to find a writer who doesn’t expect to see Dallas Keuchel. There’s also been chatter the Astros might make brief use of Justin Verlander. Kershaw and Keuchel would be on two days’ rest. Verlander, zero. With one game remaining, one game that means more than all others, we should examine the playoff history of this.

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The biggest at-bat of Game 6 was when Chris Taylor doubled. Whether it was a good pitch or not, whether it was a good swing or not, Taylor made contact and the ball found the grass, and the Dodgers evened the score. Just as importantly, they moved runners to second and third with nobody out, and, that quickly, the home team became the obvious favorite. The Dodgers’ chance of winning increased about 24 percentage points. Corey Seager followed with a sacrifice fly, and the lead was never surrendered. The game flipped in the sixth. That fast, the Astros were forced to prepare for Game 7.

At the end of the day, you need to score to win. Justin Verlander blanked the Dodgers through five, and, for a time, it looked like it might not even matter if the Astros added on. Perhaps George Springer’s home run would be enough. But, to me, there was a turning point, before the major turning point. Going into the bottom of the sixth, the Dodgers were still down 1-0. Yet it could’ve been an awful lot worse. But for the sequence in the top of the fifth.

As Rich Hill started the inning, Brian McCann ripped a single, and Marwin Gonzalez ripped a double. Josh Reddick dug in with two runners to score, and there were all of the outs to play with. Reddick was in position to provide some insurance. Then Hill started him off with three balls.

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The thing about the slick-baseball theory is it’s so easy to believe. To review, as quickly as possible: Pitchers believe the World Series baseball is different. Like, the actual baseball itself. They suspected it was kind of different earlier in the playoffs, but now they think it’s more different. It’s different by feeling more slick, more slippery. You can imagine how that could pose a problem. What are pitchers to do if they’re not accustomed to their instrument?

So the idea goes, it’s had a profound effect on sliders in particular. Anecdotally, you can get behind it, because we’ve seen some sliders get hit hard. But the other evidence is even more compelling. There’s the blindfold test. There are pictures. And, simply, there are the pitchers, speaking their minds. Experienced pitchers, who you’d think would know what a baseball feels like more than anyone. This is more than just one or two guys. Tom Verducci spoke to players and coaches from both the Astros and the Dodgers. Why would you doubt what the pitchers have to say? Why would they just make this up?

I don’t think they are making it up. I think pitchers do have a certain sense for things. I’d just like to present a graph.

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After the way that Game 5 played out, I knew I had to give this some breathing room. There are things you want to talk and read about right after a game is finished, and there are things you want to talk and read about much later on. This is hardly the most important content about the Astros’ tie-breaking victory in their final home game of the season. I just have a question, and I’d love to see how you respond. I’ve been thinking about this since before I fell asleep.

In the bottom of the seventh inning, Sunday night, Carlos Correa faced Brandon Morrow and knocked a two-run homer out to left field. The Astros went ahead 11-8. In the top of the ninth inning, Yasiel Puig faced Chris Devenski and knocked a two-run homer out to left field. The Dodgers tightened the gap to 12-11. By the rules, both home runs were legitimate. There’s no question that the balls left the yard on the fly. Live by the Crawford Boxes, and die by the Crawford Boxes. Correa and Puig both hit two-run home runs. They were significant. But, in your own personal opinion, which home run was worse?

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No one ever wants to have to talk about the strike zone. If the zone is called well, there’s nothing to discuss; if it isn’t, that’s a problem, but it’s all deeply unfulfilling. Fans don’t want to be helped by the strike zone, because it takes something away from a team’s own achievements. And fans don’t want to be hurt by the strike zone, because it leaves them feeling cheated. Every baseball fan everywhere acknowledges that the game involves a certain human element, but we all prefer to think the games are decided by the players, and by the players alone. Introducing a third party tends to make people upset.

Among the great reliefs of Game 5 is that it won’t be remembered for home-plate umpire Bill Miller. The game packed in enough astonishing action that there are more interesting and important points to make besides the zone having been so weird. Miller made some strange calls, but every pitcher was also entirely gassed, and balls were flying over the fence. Alex Bregman won the game with a walk-off single. Although the zone was pitcher-friendly, there were still 11 total walks and 25 total runs. The lingering image isn’t one of a hitter shaking his head.

Yet the obnoxious reality is that the zone was a factor. The zone is always a factor, because every game changes with every individual pitch. On Sunday, some pitches were called unlike how they usually are. The zone is woven in, inextricable, a part of the larger game story. We’d prefer not to think about it, but blissful ignorance doesn’t acknowledge all that went on.

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