Canada Puts Candy Bags Aside as the Toronto Blue Jays Close in on a World Series

If you want to know what it takes to derail a national holiday in Canada, the answer isn’t politics, religion, or even the weather. It’s baseball. Specifically, the Toronto Blue Jays—three wins deep into the 2025 World Series and one victory away from their first championship in thirty-two years.

Somewhere between Whitby and Union Station, a grown man is lugging a box of candy on the GO Train because he refuses to miss a single pitch. Another has declared, unironically, that “Halloween is cancelled.”

And honestly—what the hell?

I love Halloween. It’s the one night we collectively agree to be weird on purpose. But apparently this year, skeletons, pumpkins, and tiny vampires must make way for one big blue bird swinging for history.

“Sorry, Folks, Halloween Is Cancelled.”

That was the now-infamous post from an X user early Thursday morning. He wasn’t joking.

Across Canada, trick-or-treat routes were being shortened. Porch lights were turned off by eight p.m. sharp. Parents were making contingency plans like they were running NORAD. “We’ll go early,” they said. “The game starts at eight.”

Translation: you can have your Kit Kats and your costumes, but only if you’re home before first pitch.

Even I—who once planned an entire weekend around sourcing fake cobwebs and a fog machine—had to admit, the country had gone feral.

It wasn’t just fandom anymore. It was faith.

The Jays, the Drought, and the Need for a Miracle

The Jays haven’t won the World Series since 1993. That was back when phones had cords and Joe Carter was still mythological. Since then, Canada’s had three decades of “close calls,” “maybe next years,” and “we’re rebuilding.”

So when the team stormed into the Series against the Dodgers—then dropped a marathon 18-inning loss in Game 3, only to claw back with two straight road wins—the country got high on hope.

This wasn’t just about sports. It was about narrative. About redemption arcs. About the collective dream that maybe, just once, something great could happen here.

And because Canadians are generally modest to a fault, we didn’t throw parades or light fireworks. We just… quietly cancelled Halloween.

Trick or Treat, Meet Strike Three

You know what’s genuinely wild? The logistics.

Neighborhood group chats were on fire. “Does anyone know if we’re still doing candy this year?” “Can we start at 5 p.m. instead?” “Will the game be on outside?”

Halloween, usually chaos wrapped in sugar, was now a scheduling conflict. Parents bribed kids: one full-size chocolate bar for every thirty minutes you don’t complain about the game.

The irony? Baseball is slow. You could trick-or-treat an entire subdivision before the second inning ends. But no—this was about priorities, not practicality. We’d collectively decided that a sport defined by waiting was worth waiting for.

How Canada Accidentally Created a Civic Holiday

What you’re seeing here isn’t just fandom. It’s national identity cosplay.

We love to talk about humility, how we’re not like “those Americans.” But the truth is, we crave spectacle. We want to be loud, proud, maybe even obnoxious—just for a night. The World Series gave us permission.

We turned baseball into ritual. Bars became temples. The Rogers Centre became a cathedral. And every pitch, hit, and strikeout was met with the kind of reverence usually reserved for divine intervention or Tim Hortons when it actually gets your order right.

And maybe that’s why Halloween had to go. Because you can’t have two religions in one night.

The Theology of Sports (and Other Small Cults)

Let’s be honest: watching sports is just organized worship with beer.

You have your saints (Vladimir Guerrero Jr., Ricky Tiedemann). You have your relics (that faded 1993 championship banner). You have rituals (lucky jerseys, cursed seats, the guy who won’t move during a rally).

The sermon starts at eight. The congregation stands. We chant. We raise our drinks.

So when Canadians decided Halloween could take a back seat, it wasn’t a logistical decision. It was theological. The Jays were giving us a reason to believe—something bigger than pumpkin spice and polyester costumes.

Meanwhile, Halloween Lovers Are Losing It

And here’s where I, personally, start twitching.

Halloween isn’t just a holiday; it’s a cultural detox. It’s the only night of the year where you can be ugly on purpose. Where adulthood takes a break and nobody expects you to have a five-year plan.

You can wear fake blood to the grocery store and nobody calls security. You can eat candy corn without shame. You can be a sexy vampire or a literal cardboard box, and everyone will nod approvingly.

Now that’s being replaced by… baseball?

Don’t get me wrong—I get it. History, pride, the potential for champagne-soaked locker rooms. But when I see people dressed as zombies watching the pre-game show on a portable projector, I wonder if maybe we’ve lost the plot.

The Absurdity We Deserve

Still, there’s something kind of perfect about it.

Canada doesn’t do chaos well. We’re allergic to passion unless it’s politely expressed. So if it takes a World Series to get us to collectively scream at our televisions while a witch hat droops in the corner, maybe that’s progress.

Maybe we needed this absurd overlap: kids in costumes sprinting between houses while adults in Jays jerseys shout “One more win!” from porches. A country split between horror and hope.

The truth is, it’s not baseball versus Halloween—it’s both. Two rituals colliding, each reminding us that belief (in ghosts or in comebacks) is what keeps things interesting.

The Economics of Excitement

Ask any restaurant or bar in Toronto, and they’ll tell you: this Series is a gold mine. Game nights are sold out. Bartenders are wearing Jays gear instead of black. Even the most cynical servers are yelling “Let’s go!” between orders.

It’s capitalism with team spirit.

And the city’s feeding off it—literally. Every street vendor, Uber driver, and overpriced nacho stand is part of the machine now. Halloween decorations hang half-finished on storefronts because the game is about to start.

We’ve commodified suspense. And that’s the part Bill Burr would love. The sheer ridiculousness of a country losing its collective mind over something that, technically, involves standing around for three hours waiting for a guy to hit a ball.

What If They Lose?

You know the danger of building all your national hope on one game? The aftermath.

If the Jays win, we’ll call it destiny. “See? It was worth it.” If they lose, we’ll shrug, say “Still proud,” and move on like a nation of slightly disappointed parents.

Either way, Halloween will still happen next year. Kids will still dress up. The fog machine will still sputter. The skeleton in the yard will still wave in the wind, holding a tiny Blue Jays flag in its bony hand.

We’ll look back and laugh about the night we collectively ghosted Halloween for baseball.

The Psychology of Almost

There’s a theory that Canadians are wired for “almost.” We’re the nation of near-misses, polite defeats, silver medals. The Jays’ run hits the national nerve because it gives us permission to want everything for once.

Maybe that’s why we’re willing to trade a night of costumes for a night of catharsis. Winning feels foreign to us. Like suddenly being told we’re the main character in a story we thought we were just narrating.

And we like it.

For the Record: Halloween Still Wins

Let’s be clear—I still think cancelling Halloween is cultural treason. But if it takes a championship to make Canadians this collectively unhinged, I’ll allow it.

Because when else do we see this kind of unity? Not for elections. Not for policy. But for a baseball team that hasn’t won since before half the country was born.

Halloween will recover. It’s resilient. It’s powered by sugar and spite. But this? This feeling? It’s fleeting. And that’s what makes it worth pausing for.

Final Pitch

So yes, Halloween got benched this year. But for one night, Canada decided that hope was more intoxicating than fear.

We dressed up in blue instead of black. We traded ghosts for home runs. We paused our little traditions for something bigger.

And maybe that’s the most Canadian thing of all—not cancelling Halloween, but believing that missing it for one night might just make history sweeter.