Sitting in the nosebleed seats at the Blue Jays’ final game of the regular season in September, I looked over at my daughter, who was clinging to the railing with her eyes squeezed shut. Like her mother, she fears heights and believes that humans should not voluntarily perch in high and precarious places.

To take her mind off her vertigo, I told her stories about the Blue Jays’ mythical past: About Dave Winfield and the doomed seagull , Jose Bautista’s acrobatic bat , and also how as a teenager I would watch the Jays at the old Exhibition Stadium , huddled in my army-surplus trenchcoat against the bitter lake wind. But mostly I told her about how amazing it was when the Blue Jays won the World Series for the first time, and the city burst wide open with excitement.

That blissful er

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