Winning means your name gets etched onto the trophy in permanent silver letters. That’s forever, folks—centuries from now, aliens might find a 3D-printed replica of your team’s name. You also get your own highlight reel played on every sports network until you’re sick of seeing your own face. (Which takes about 48 hours, trust me.)
And then there’s the parade. You ride in a convertible or on a fire truck, freezing your butt off while thousands of fans scream your name. It’s the closest a baseball player gets to being a rock star—except you’re wearing a polyester jersey and smelling like cheap beer. But you love every second.
