Tonight, as the Toronto Blue Jays face the Yankees, I feel that familiar buzz of October. It’s not just about baseball (or changing seasons). It’s about connection, belonging, and those small, almost sacred moments when we remember what it feels like to care about something together.
I love baseball for many reasons — it’s a sport with muscle but also mercy. It’s still a man’s game in many ways — full of swagger, superstition, and the quiet pride of long practices under hot sun — but it carries a certain grace that other sports don’t. There’s no hitting to hurt (usually), no need to crash into someone to prove you belong (usually). It’s strength without brutality most of the time. Baseball happens in open air, under summer skies, stitched into the sound of the crowd and the crack of the bat. It’s patient, thoughtful, almost meditative — a rhythm of dirt, sweat, and restraint. It reminds me that power doesn’t have to shout; sometimes it just waits for the right pitch. With baseball, it feels like anything can happen, and the tides can turn at any moment.
I wasn’t always as invested. As a kid, I watched the Jays win those early-90s World Series with one eye on the TV and the other, who knows where? I played the game, which usually helps because we actually understand how the game works and how it feels. But along the way, into adult life, things shifted. I don’t generally identify with fandom. Maybe it’s my journalism past. But these days, and since having kids, I find myself right in there; on the bleachers (real or the imagined ones in my living room), having helped shift my husband’s loyalty from hockey rinks to ball fields, watching my teenage sons (and one in particular) live and breathe baseball.
My younger son plays the game. He hasn’t missed watching a game in years. He memorizes stats, narrates player lineups, and grins with quiet pride when he nails a swing with his own team. There’s something pure about it—older teens, half-grown men now, still lighting up when bat meets ball, still chasing joy in contact and connection.
And maybe that’s what keeps me watching, too.
Swagger Then, Humility Now
When I think about the Blue Jays of 2015, I remember swagger. That team carried itself with edge—a sharpness, a kind of emotional rebellion that felt electric. It was incredible! It was as if they were collectively saying: “We’ve arrived. Watch us.” There was confidence in every bat flip and roar from the dugout. They knew they had an entire nation behind them.
This year’s team feels different. More grounded. Quieter. There’s a humility in the way they play—a kind of resilience that doesn’t need to announce itself in the same way. They’ve embraced being the underdog, the team that keeps showing up, even when no one’s sure they should still be standing.
There’s something deeply Canadian about that—steady, self-effacing, occasionally underestimated, but quietly proud to come from behind.
Why Baseball Feeds the Soul (Even When It Hurts)
In therapy, I work with people grieving over life’s crises and disappointments – navigating boredom, helplessness and sadness despite promises of happiness in their good life fantasy. With that, it’s important to talk about the human need for “low-stakes thrills.” We can’t live in constant crisis. Our nervous systems crave small, manageable doses of anticipation and release—moments that remind us what aliveness feels like. A late-inning rally offers that. So does watching your kid step up to the plate, breath caught in your chest.
Baseball, in its own way, is a slow-burn mindfulness practice. Every pitch asks you to stay present. Every inning is a lesson in patience and uncertainty. You can’t rush a comeback—you have to stay with it, hope through it.
And hope, in this world, is no small thing.
When headlines feel heavy, when polarization or war or climate despair threaten to flatten us, sometimes it’s the small, ordinary things that tether us: family rituals, shared meals, a good inning, a communal cheer. We need spaces where it’s still safe to hope without irony.
Critical Reflections (and a Bit of Therapy Nerding)
Sports, of course, don’t exist in a vacuum. There’s nationalism, capitalism, and spectacle—all worthy of critique. But when I watch the Jays play, I also see something collective and tender. A Canadian team—our team—competing in a league dominated by American narratives. It’s a metaphor for how many of us feel these days: small but steady, earnest, occasionally overlooked, still trying.
That’s part of why fandom can feel healing. It’s not just about competition; it’s about participation. We get to belong to something that’s bigger than us but not beyond us. It’s the same impulse that drives us toward community, family, or therapy itself—the wish to be part of a story where connection and hope are still possible.
The Therapist Who Cheers (and Feels It All)
So yes, tonight, I’ll be watching—probably pacing, cheering, and possibly cursing or yelling at the screen, with my husband, and one son, while texting with excitement to my other son. And when the tension hits, I’ll remind myself that this, too, is emotional regulation in action: feeling without numbing, caring without control.
If you’re craving connection, meaning, or a sense of belonging—whether through sport, art, or the quiet rituals of daily life—therapy can be one of those spaces. As an Ontario-based psychotherapist in Hamilton, I offer both in-person and online sessions. Together, we can explore how your own “innings” unfold: where you feel struck out, where you rally, and where the next swing might land.
Go Jays! And go you!
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