They didn’t glide to it. They limped, adjusted, argued with fate, then outlasted it. From an Opening Day sunrise in Tokyo to a midnight finale in Toronto, the Dodgers lived a season that refused to behave—stars sidelined, a bullpen springing leaks, expectations clanging like dinner plates. And yet, when the calendar and the clock ran out, Los Angeles still had the final word: a 5–4 Game 7 triumph in the eleventh, a second straight World Series, and the first repeat champions the sport has seen since the millennial Yankees.

Game 7 told the whole tale in miniature. Shohei Ohtani, short on rest and shorter on command, was ambushed by Bo Bichette’s three-run thunderbolt and a crowd that could taste catharsis. The Dodgers answered the only way survivors know how—inch by inch. A sacrifice fly here, a splitter from Max Muncy redirected into the seats there, and at the hinge of the night, a most improbable swing from Miguel Rojas. A career utility man, summoned for steadiness, lashed a ninth-inning slider into left to tie it and, moments later, paired hands and nerve to start the frantic force at home that bought Los Angeles extra life.

Then, in the eleventh, destiny wore a catcher’s mask. Will Smith—who had already caught every pitch of this marathon Series—got one to handle and didn’t miss, floating an opposite-field shot just beyond the wall. It was the first extra-inning home run to decide a winner-take-all World Series game, a swing equal parts fatigue and forever. The Dodgers finally had their first lead of the night, and somewhere in the din, you could hear the era changing its name.

The last act belonged to Yoshinobu Yamamoto, and it may have rewritten what we think modern October will allow. One day removed from 96 pitches in Game 6, he took the ball in relief, walked into a ninth-inning tangle, and coolly untied it. He smothered the tenth, survived the eleventh, and closed the book with a double play to Mookie Betts—sealing both the game and a World Series MVP earned with a 1.02 ERA over 17⅔ defiant innings. In a time of pitch counts and prudence, he chose poise and history.

If this is the golden era of Dodger baseball, it’s because it’s been hammered into shape, not handed over. Blake Snell lost time, Tyler Glasnow too, and Roki Sasaki’s promise was postponed. The bullpen wobbled, roles shifted, and the regular season seldom matched the roster poster. But come October, the rotation found its cadence, the defense its nerve, and the lineup just enough answers—never pretty for long, always timely enough. They swept, they survived, and when the Jays shoved them to the edge, Los Angeles leaned back into its identity: depth, resilience, and stars willing to do the dull, brave things.

​And so the confetti fell, silver and Dodger blue, on a ninth franchise title and a third in six years. Call it a dynasty if you like; the label will sort itself out in the winters to come. What’s indisputable is the sensation left behind: a club that started under a foreign dome and finished under another, that wore the burden of expectation and turned it into fuel, that proved again that championships aren’t defended—they’re rewon, pitch by anxious pitch, until the last ball finds a glove and the last doubt dissolves into noise.