This year’s World Series ended in heartbreak, the Blue Jays versus the Dodgers, a matchup that had all of Canada holding its breath. My son was devastated when Freddie Freeman caught that final out.
He’s eleven, and this was the first year he truly fell in love with the game. Checking scores, knowing players, asking questions, dreaming big. Watching him hurt after that final out reminded me of something I didn’t expect: sometimes, heartbreak means you’ve found something worth loving.
That’s what I told him.
“You fell in love with a great game, buddy. One that you and I get to experience together forever.”
And that’s the part that hit me. Because I didn’t get to experience that with my dad. Not once.
Eighteen Innings and Everything That Matters
Game 3 of the 2025 World Series went eighteen innings. It was one of those marathon games where you lose track of time and every pitch feels like a heartbeat. Was it responsible of me to let my eleven-year-old stay up until two in the morning on a school night? Probably not.
But if I’m being honest, I wanted him to stay up until three. That’s when the game finally ended.
He made it until two, eyes heavy, heart invested, curled up on the bed beside me. He tried to hang on, but he tapped out. I smiled as he drifted off because that moment meant more to me than any final score ever could.
And the next morning, I let him stay home from school. Some things are worth losing a little sleep and a little attendance over.
Back to 1992 and 1993
When I was 14 in 1992 and 15 in 1993, the Blue Jays were on top of the world. Canada was electric. The SkyDome was shaking. It was everything a kid should remember forever.
Except, I don’t.
Because I wasn’t allowed to watch the whole game on a school night.
I remember begging, reasoning, promising I’d still get up in the morning. None of it mattered. His word was final, and so I lay in bed listening to the faint sound of the TV from the other room, hearing muffled cheers through the walls and knowing I was missing something magical.
And for years, I questioned whether that was really wrong. His house, his rules, right? Maybe that’s just how parenting worked back then.
But watching this year’s series with my son, I realized something I wish I’d understood sooner: school doesn’t rule all.
How often does your team make the World Series? How often do you get a night like that with your kid?
Ironically, both those Jays championships, 1992 and 1993, ended on Saturday nights. I got to see the final out in 1992 and then the famous Joe Carter walk-off in 1993. But one game in particular still stings. Game 4 of the 1993 World Series was the highest scoring game in World Series history. The Jays were down 14 to 9 in the eighth inning and came back with six runs to win 15 to 14. I remember being angry that I missed it live, the joy of that comeback, the chaos of that moment. I missed the magic while it was happening. And in a way, that’s what childhood with my dad often felt like — life happening in the next room.
Breaking the Cycle
I’m not saying school doesn’t matter. But school isn’t everything. Life is built from moments, from memories, not just lessons.
I’m not sure what he missed that day when I let him stay home from school, but does it really matter?
What matters is that he’ll remember that night, the tension of every inning, the two of us cheering from my bedroom, the heartbreak, the laughter, the connection.
That’s what I wanted to give him — the freedom to feel, to celebrate, to be a kid.
Because I didn’t get that. But he will.
The Real Win
So yes, the Blue Jays lost this year. But something bigger happened in our home. My son found his love for the game, and I found mine again too.
The difference is, this time, I’m not watching alone.
Next time on Tattooed Truths:
How Anger Learned to Live in Me