Here’s the thing: asking about the end time is a trophy. When you say, "Game ended at 1:37 AM," you’re not just stating a fact. You’re telling a story. It signals, "I was there. I suffered. I loved it." It’s baseball’s version of a battle scar.
So next time you check the box score and see a crazy late finish, don’t just shrug. Imagine the pitcher’s slow, deliberate windup at 1 AM. Picture the fans wrapped in blankets, clinging to every pitch. That’s not a game—that’s a memory.
And really, isn’t that what makes baseball so cool? It doesn't care about your bedtime. It just keeps going, like a story that refuses to end, until the final out finally, mercifully, arrives.
So, what time did that game end? Who cares—as long as it was worth the wait.
