The Toronto Blue Jays didn’t get the ending they fought for — and neither did we. After that marathon season, capped off with an exhausting, heartbreaking extra-innings Game 7, you could almost feel the collective energy across Canada drop. The adrenaline, the hope, the pacing in living rooms and bars, all collapsing into a single long exhale as the Dodgers celebrated on the field. I had to stop watching.
As the camera lingered on the Jays — shoulders slumped, faces drained, teary eyed — in shock really — many of us felt that same physiological crash in our own bodies. The disappointment wasn’t just theirs. It was shared. I know it took place in my living room.
And that’s the strange, powerful thing about collective emotion: even when a team loses, the impact lands in us, too.
As a psychotherapist in Hamilton, and a long time Jays fan, I’ve spent the last several weeks and even months noticing the ways people respond to this kind of communal loss online and in the therapy room. Some express sadness openly. Others move quickly to anger — the familiar storyline that the Dodgers “bought” their roster. Others bypass the heaviness entirely and pivot straight to positivity:
“Great season, proud of the boys!”
All of it is grief. Just different dialects.
The Crash After Playoff Intensity
In therapy, we often talk about what happens after the high — what the nervous system does when the surge ends. After weddings, protests, exams, reunions, and yes, marathon playoff runs, there is a predictable settling. A dropping. A recalibration. I remember this as a journalist covering elections. All the effort, the grind, the hope, the ups some days, and crashes others. That crash is real – especially when you worked hard enough to win. For the Jays – who’ve become like our adopted sons in a sense – I couldn’t help but think about the collective weight of that loss on their shoulders.
Game 7 gave us so many things at once: hope, tension, collective breath-holding, then a sudden, undeniable ending. When a moment has carried us for days or weeks, its absence can feel strange, even hollow. The silence after the noise is its own kind of ache. I know how that feels in my house with a group of die hard fans who’ve watched almost every game together for years regardless of how they performed on a given year.
Players speak about this letdown all the time — the tunnel walk after elimination, the heaviness, the quiet. Fans experience a version of it too. Not because we “care too much,” but because connection itself is regulating. And losing connection — even symbolic connection — has an impact.
Grief as a National Pulse
This loss stirred something wider than baseball. Throughout this postseason, the Jays were a rare point of national cohesion — a way to belong to something in a time marked by isolation, polarization, and chronic stress. Many people didn’t just want a win; they wanted a moment of hope that felt uncomplicated.
When that moment slips away, grief shows up in waves:
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Sadness for what could have been
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Frustration at the unfairness, or the economic imbalance of a “big market” team
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Numbness as a way of not feeling too much
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Quick optimism (“we’ll be back next year”) as a way of skipping the ache
None of these responses are wrong. They’re just different ways humans try to metabolize disappointment.
The Long Walk Home
This is where sports mirrors life. After a long, hard-fought inning — in relationships, work, caregiving, illness, or personal struggle — there’s often a period where the body and mind simply need to land. Not fix. Not rush. Not reframe. Just land.
For many people, that looks like:
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noticing a wave of emotion without needing to change it
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sensing tiredness in the body after weeks of activation
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feeling connected to something bigger, even in loss
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letting the moment mean what it meant, without forcing a lesson
These aren’t prescriptions — just experiences that tend to show up when people give themselves permission to feel what’s already there.
Grief, whether collective or individual, doesn’t move in straight lines. It moves like innings: slow, unpredictable, sometimes scoreless, sometimes surprising, always requiring a return to the body between plays.
Being Human Together
As jerseys get folded away and the news cycle moves on, you might still notice echoes of the postseason in your system — tenderness, agitation, restlessness, gratitude, heaviness. All of these are signs of the nervous system recalibrating after intensity. And recalibration is part of healing.
Because this was never just about baseball.
It was about belonging, hope, and connection — even in disappointment.
It was about being human together in a world that so often keeps us apart.
If you find yourself struggling with emotional crashes after big events — whether sports, stress, relationships, or life transitions — psychotherapy can offer space to understand those patterns and support your nervous system in grounding and integrating them.
For psychotherapy in Hamilton supporting anxiety, grief, stress, and life transitions with warmth and presence, visit ontariotherapist.com.
This blog is for general reflection and information only and is not a substitute for psychotherapy or mental-health care.
Visit ontariotherapist.com for psychotherapy in Hamilton supporting anxiety, depression, and grief with warmth, insight, and real connection.
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