Ack, we lost. Do we have another choice but to writhe in agony? Well, yes

by Tim O'Connor November 6, 2025

All week, I feel like Canada has been undergoing group therapy.

In just about every conversation that anyone has had, it seems like we’re all trying to make sense of a world where the Jay could be two outs away from winning the World Series and then …

I think we’re moving through something like the Kubler-Ross stages of grief, from initial denial to anger and, I hope, acceptance.

Is it possible that one could make an argument there’s is an upside? It’s a stretch, but for those who care about such things, this could be one of our greatest Canadian collective AFGOs.

What’s that?

Another F***ing Growth Opportunity.

Who wants to learn anything from losing, especially in spectacular fashion? We wanted to win.

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We could keep replaying the game over and over, feel the ache, ponder the “what ifs” and “if onlys,” and ask the deity of your choice how we were deprived of the moment of release and deliverance that we craved; that seemed our destiny, our right.

Well, we could, but as the Buddhists say, we’d be creating our own suffering.

A second after the double-play dagger to the heart in the 11th, I clicked off the remote and went to bed. Couldn’t sleep, of course. I kept rolling over as this one thought kept torturing me: “If only Clement’s ball had gone another two feet over the wall!”

On Sunday morning, the sun shone brightly, and the ache seemed to have subsided. For a few minutes on my walk with Freddie, I was dazzled by the beautiful leaves, but eventually that annoying voice in my head started to repeat: “They were two outs away, two lousy outs away … “

At church later that morning, I found myself strikingly aware of every word of the ritual prayers and responses; I realized that I was feeling a greater sense of focus and peace than usual. My hectoring inner voice was surprisingly silent. I dialled into Father Boyd’s homily which was, fittingly, mainly about coming to terms with death. Singing with the rest of the congregation was joyful—a communal experience—and I savoured the luscious melancholy melodies of Grace’s piano with my eyes closed.

Afterwards, a group of us filed into the church community room for “Sunday coffee.” I sat with two women who I call church ladies because of their deep involvement. I was surprised that they immediately started talking about the game, about what a great experience it was, and, of course, how it ended disappointingly. But they were also surprised by how completely enthralled they had been following every pitch, awed by the magnificence of the highly skilled athletes, caught up in the tension and drama.

Rather than complain about the result, they were grateful to share in this Canadian coming together around the Jays. One said, “I hate sports. But it was like, ‘Oh yeah, I get why people like sports.’”

I was thinking that we didn’t get what we wanted, but that it was an incredible shared experience that does what sports does better than anything else—bring people together.

A friend of mine went to Game One of the series at the Rogers Centre. In front of him was a young Asian couple; they appeared private, shy, and stayed tight together. But during the Jays’ crazy nine-run inning, my friend and his buddies were jumping up and down in celebration when he noticed the young man was part of the joyous group hug.

Yes, that’s all very nice. Great memories for sure. But we didn’t win the Series! How many chances do you get to win the ultimate prize, climb to the mountaintop and shout, “We’re No. 1?”

Back to the Buddhists for a second; they would call that attachment. That we’re attached emotionally and intellectually to a specific outcome that we don’t just want, like choosing between a ham or tuna sandwich. No, we crave it. We lust for it.

I think that somehow explains why I ran up to my TV as Clement’s shot headed toward the bleachers in Game 7, only to watch Pages drop to the earth, the ball entombed in his glove. It was a sickening gut punch.

This week, I thought about how Pages, who was no doubt bummed about his dreadful bat all series, redeemed himself by making one of the greatest catches in World Series history; that it was amazing how an athlete performed at the absolute peak of his ability when the stakes were at their highest.

During another conversation this week with a wise friend who is also not a sports fan, she said she couldn’t handle the tension of Game 7, so she went to bed. But she remarked at how impressed she was by the brilliant plays that she witnessed—the lightning fast double-plays, shoe-string catches, and long, accurate throws.

“Those guys are amazing,” she said. “They all seem so present. They’re just in the moment. I think that’s what allows them to do what they do.”

Later, I thought that’s what I coach golfers to do, what I’m trying to do every day, and that’s what I can to mute the damn inner voice.

We have a choice to be present, experience a moment, absorb whatever it has for us, be it disappointment or pleasure and let it pass. Not to wish great moments last and last, or that they return on demand, gratifyingly. Or to regret and ruminate the “what ifs” and “if onlys.”

Interestingly, I found that the people who are moving on with the least amount of angst are the folks like my wise friend, the church ladies, and hard-core baseball fans, the ones who watch entire games even in May and June.

They know that baseball is capricious. Crazy, unpredictable things happen in baseball—guys get picked off due to a second’s worth of inattention, or a bat breaks turning a potential single into game-ending double play.

Sigh. It’s not fair, but it’s baseball, and it’s life.

Stuff happens and we have to deal with it. Some people don’t. They don’t accept reality. So instead, they bitch, moan, howl at the moon, find fault in others, criticize and blame, point fingers, write hurtful vindictive things online, spread gossip and sue folks.

Or we can make a different choice: “This happened, but I’m going to do my best to keep going, and see what happens.”

I think that’s best than any of us can do.

Sometimes, we get what we want. Most times, we don’t. We’re allowed to be disappointed and smite our foreheads, but also realize we’ve just been presented with another learning experience—the dreaded AFGO.

As a friend wisely said to me, “I never learned anything on a good day.”

Maybe this loss, which sucked and still sucks, will be one day be looked upon for the Jays, for the hard-core fans and everyone who jumped on board, as a gift.

It’s probably too early, but how about we give it a shot: let’s see what happens.

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My most recent book is Getting Unstuck: 7 Transformational Practices for Golf Nerds, which is now available in both soft cover and Kindle formats.

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