Day One: After Baseball

Estimated reading time: 10 minutes
 

The Dodgers won it all last night.
Game 7. Extra innings.
All the stories kids live out in the backyard.
Bottom of the ninth, full count, bases loaded kinda thing...
That actually happened.
And the world got to feel it.

It was one of those games that punches you right in the chest, though.
Doesn't matter who you were cheering for. 
Chaos, beauty, tension, redemption.

And when it ended, I just sat there.
Quiet.
Still.
Not celebrating.
Just feeling it.
Edge of the couch, just processing it all.

My wife looked over and said,
“So… what are you gonna do now?”
 

The Question That Never Leaves

It’s funny.
I’ve been retired for years.
From really being in it.
From being part of an organization.
From living the travel, the grind, the endless chatter in clubhouses and cages.
From that feeling of being needed in the room.

But that question still lands heavy.

Because every player knows that silence.
The season ends, and suddenly there’s no text about bus times, per diem handout.
No cage, no early work, no chaos.

Just stillness.
And stillness hits different when you’ve been living inside the storm.

Your body doesn’t know it’s over.
The nervous system still thinks it’s game day.
That’s not nostalgia.
That’s biology.
You’ve been running on dopamine and belonging for months.
And now there’s nowhere to put it.

That crash?
That’s the absence of purpose.
And purpose doesn’t just disappear quietly.
 

What I’ll Do Now

To answer that question...  I know what I’m gonna do.
Get back to early mornings.
Back to bed before nine.
Back to early wake-ups.
Back to workouts that don’t depend on a scoreboard.
Back to peace through process.

But that feeling lingers.
It always does.
Even after years away from the field,
Day One, the day after baseball still hits.
It’s like walking through a house that used to be full of noise.
You still hear the echoes.
 

From Player to Coach

Now I watch it through two lenses.
The player who lived it, and the coach who studies it.

I felt Dave Roberts last night.
Go back and watch his reaction when Rojas hit that ninth-inning home run to tie it.
That wasn’t just excitement; that was utter relief, belief, pride, exhaustion, and love.
The look of a man who gave everything to his guys and got it back in one swing.

When you’ve coached, you know that look.
By this point in the season, you’re not really coaching anymore.
You’ve done your work.
You’ve built trust, culture, and accountability.
Now it’s theirs.
You just stand there and hope they remember what you taught them.
That’s the beauty of it...  letting go, and watching them become everything you hoped they would.
 

October in Canada

And man, what a month for baseball in this country.

It’s usually off our radar.
Hockey, curling, football, everything else drowns it out.
But this October?
It felt alive again.
You could feel it everywhere.

Conversations at my kids’ swimming lessons with random parents.
“Did you watch the game last night?”
Clients asking about baseball again.
Little League kids showing up to sessions talking about Vladdy, Bo, and the Jays’ run.

It brought something back.

It reminded me of ‘92 and ‘93 when the Jays went back-to-back.
I was twelve.
I remember Joe Carter’s home run like it was yesterday.
The sound, the leap, the chaos that swept across this country.
It was massive.
We all felt part of something.

And this year, even though they came up short,
It did something real for Canada again.
It reminded people what it feels like to believe.
It gave kids a reason to dream again.
That maybe there’s a path.
That maybe this game still belongs to us, too.

Kinda like the Raptors run in 2019.
That same wave of energy.
A sense that the country was watching the same story unfold at once.
Different sport, same heartbeat.
For a few weeks, we were all pulling in the same direction again.

I know there’s only one Canadian on the 26-man roster,  but that doesn’t matter.
Because when you play in the Rogers Centre, you feel it.
You know what you’re playing for.
It’s not just a city.
It’s a country.
You can feel the weight of it... the noise, the history, the pride.

It connected people who don’t normally connect.
It sparked pride.
It gave strangers something to talk about other than the weather or politics.
That’s what sport does when it’s pure.
It reminds a country of its heartbeat.
 

The Hardest Part

The hardest part about sport isn’t losing.
It’s stopping.
It’s going from “this means everything”
to “now what?”

And I saw that again in Ernie Clement’s post-game interview.
That look... pride and heartbreak in the same breath.
That’s what it feels like when you’ve poured everything into something and it’s suddenly gone.
He wasn’t crushed.
He was human.
And that’s the truth nobody talks about enough.
The heartbreak means you cared.

Even the Dodgers, who won it all, will feel it soon, too.
Because that kind of bond, that locker room, that brotherhood... it ends overnight or at least after the parade.
And that loss, that hollow space?
That’s what makes them a dynasty.
They love each other enough to feel it.
That’s the cost of caring deeply.

And that’s why people are drawn to October baseball.
Because it’s not just competition.
It’s connection.
It’s humans giving everything they have to something bigger than themselves.
And we all want that.
 

The Hangover of Purpose

The day after the season ends is strange.
You wake up without a plan.
Without the chase.
Without the identity.

That’s where the real work starts.
Figuring out who you are when the noise is gone.

You don’t miss baseball.
You miss what it gave you.
Structure, identity, belonging.
That’s human behaviour 101.
We’re wired for connection and challenge.
And playoff baseball gives you both in their purest form.

That’s why it hooks everyone.
Because deep down, every person watching wants that same feeling.
To belong, to fight, to care enough that it hurts.
 

The Grace

And then there was John Schneider’s post-game interview.
The grace in his voice.
The composure.
The honesty.
He didn’t deflect.
Didn’t point fingers.
He carried it.
That’s leadership.

Coaching humbles you faster than anything.
You win together.
You lose alone.
And how you handle that defines you.

I’ve been there... standing on the field after the last out,
Trying to find the words that don’t exist.
You just breathe.
You shake hands.
You walk off.
And you hope your players saw the love behind the work.
 

The Beauty and the Bruise

Baseball teaches you how to grind.
Then it teaches you how to let go.
It gives you an identity.
Then it asks, “Who are you without it?”

That’s the beauty.
That’s the bruise.
That’s the lesson.

Pressure.
Presence.
Patience.
Grace.

The ones who can hold all of that... they don’t just become better athletes.
They become better humans.
 

Day One

So yeah, the Dodgers won.
They earned it.
But Day One starts for everyone now.

The day after.
The reset.
The silence after the storm.

The ones who lost feel it.
The ones who won will too.
Because that ache, that emptiness.. that’s not pain.
That’s purpose searching for a new home.

And that’s what we’re all doing, every one of us.
Trying to find belonging.
Trying to stay connected.
Trying to feel something real.

Baseball just makes it visible.

It never really leaves you.
It just moves.
From your hands, to your head, to your heart.

And if you let it... It keeps teaching you.
Long after you stop playing it.
 

Why Baseball Is Beautiful

Because it’s life.

It brings tears of joy.
It makes grown men jump around like kids.
It also brings you to your knees.

You do everything perfectly and still fail.
You make a mistake and somehow get away with it.
And when you’ve poured yourself into others, the people you’ve cared for,  
They give it back when it matters most.

I love that balance.
That unpredictability.
That honesty.

Baseball’s not fast.
It’s not flashy.
It’s a long game.

Just like life.

Spring training — hope and excitement.
162 games — grind and growth.
Playoffs — pressure and truth.

It’s the hardest, longest grind in sports.
(Some will disagree. That’s fine.)
But that’s what makes it so beautiful.

You can’t rush it.
You can’t fake it.
You just show up.
Every day.
One pitch at a time.
One at-bat.
One rep.
One breath.

It teaches patience.
Resilience.
Faith.
Process.

And if you stick with it long enough,
it gives you everything.
Joy. Pain. Connection. Meaning.

That’s why baseball is beautiful.
Because it’s not about perfection.
It’s about endurance.
It’s about learning how to live.

One day at a time.
One season at a time.
One beautiful, brutal pitch at a time.
 

Much love,
Coach P