As anyone who has ever met me knows, I don’t really do sports.
That’s not to say I dislike them — I enjoy them from afar. I like the idea of sports. I appreciate the camaraderie that comes with being a sports fan, the instant sense of belonging created through shared experiences of winning and losing. I admire the fierce loyalty people grant to whatever team is “their team,” — a devotion so deep it can span generations and survive decades of disappointment in some cases. I am genuinely awe-struck by the willingness of some fans to eliminate entire colors from their wardrobe because of an apparently, extremely personal rivalry with another team. That level of commitment deserves respect or possibly some type of certification. However, while I generally have a handsoff relationship with sports, being present at a sporting event has always been a mostly enjoyable experience for me.
There is some unspoken, palpable energy present at sports games that is allencompassing and adrenaline-inducing. The roar of the crowd as one collective voice, the sea of matching colors moving like a living thing, the squeak of sneakers on a polished floor, the thud of colliding helmets on a field, the split second of bated breath held before a goal is made and the immediate eruption that follows. With all that, it is no wonder why once I’m in it, I am all in.
I become a different person entirely.
I somehow morph into the loudest, most dedicate fan of all. I am clapping in perfect rhythm with the cheerleaders. I am glaring at referees with the intensity of someone who has made being a fan of this team their entire personality. I am offering unsolicited commentary, passionately convinced that if the coach would listen to me then we’d for sure be headed to districts or regionals or playoffs or what-have-you. For a few hours I fit perfectly into this puzzle of people who are a puzzle to me. I feel the pull of it — I understand the unity, the shared emotional rollercoaster, the strange comfort of knowing that everyone around me is feeling the exact same joy or devastation at the exact same time. It is intoxicating. Honestly, in a different life, I may have been a true-blue, end-all, uncomfortably dedicated sports fan.
And then something inevitably comes flying towards me — a ball, a puck, a stray piece of equipment launched with impressive force with what feels like deeply personal intent. No matter where I am — the nosebleeds, the front row, walking to the concession stand — there is always a moment where I find myself attempting (I say attempting because I was not blessed with reflexes built for evasion) to duck out of the way of something that seems unnervingly determined to hit me in particular.
It is in these moments that I am reminded who I am and put firmly back into place. While everyone else leaps up hoping for a souvenir I make myself as small as possible and look for the best escape route — questioning every life choice that brought me to the game in the first place. My adrenaline shifts from team spirit to selfpreservation and the illusion cracks just enough for reality to slip back in.
Still, even with the near misses and the occasional spike in blood pressure there’s something special about it. Sporting events are one of the few places left where people of all ages, backgrounds, and opinions willingly gather to experience something together, in real time, without a pause button. You can’t scroll past a bad call. You can’t mute the crowd. You live in the moment whether you want to or not.
I may not know stats, standings, or schedules. I may not plan my weekends around games or wear the colors year-round but if I’m in the stands surrounded by the noise and energy then for a little while I’m with everyone else — cheering too loud, believing too hard, and hopefully ducking just in time.