4,374 Outs

Four thousand three hundred and seventy four, give or take.

Gausman settles and fires. He strikes him out. One down. and I consider, truly, for the first time in five months, baseball.

They were a foot away from a championship. Sports nirvana. A world series for a generation of Canadian fans starved of glory.

A swing and a miss. He strikes out the side. Three down, and I reckon with the pain of coming that close. It's been blocked out, a mini trauma that I just couldn't face.

This is the day where that wound starts to heal. The nation of Jays fans is bonded by nonsensical grief.

Down 0-2 in the count, Vladdy gets on base. There's a mental exhale, a feeling akin to stretching an angry muscle after a bad night of sleep.

Jays go down in the inning, I make a little joke, pet my dog, take a load off.

Six up for Gausman now, and six down. There's a comfort in the background as I write. Familiarity.

The baseball season is long. There are Four thousand, three hundred and seventy four outs that every team will make.

Climbing that mountain, hoping to get back to the top. Each batter another step closer. A great project. A long journey.

The pain will linger. The feeling like you missed out on a life changing experience. A championship banner hangs for eternity after all.

"Nine up, nine down. Six Ks already for Kevin Gausman" says Dan Shulman.

Ok. Fine. I'm smiling.

Maybe, after all, I'll look forward to those outs. Outs in my new basement. Outs from the dock. Outs from the outfield district. Outs from who knows where. Outs while I'm asleep. Outs from the bar. Outs I won't see.

Four thousand three hundred and seventy four outs.

I'm going to enjoy them, best I can. The optimist in me, always there, is awake again at last.

Baseball is back.