Why sports are weird

There’s something I’ve been grappling with for a few months, and especially since I’ve been home for Christmas. And it’s this:

It’s very weird to be a sports fan.

Now, it’s not weird to be a fan of sports, and that’s an important distinction. It’s cool and rad to play soccer or basketball or shin-kicking or wife-carrying. You get some cardio or resistance training, you get to be a part of a team, all that stuff.

But being a sports fan is different, and it’s strange.

And believe me, I’m a sports fan. A few years ago I was a huge sports fan. In college, instead of studying for LSATs and MCATs and DATs like my friends, I was scrolling through obscure Michigan message boards alongside posters with names like “Steve-a-wolverine-o” and “GoBlueForevaaa.” Instead of making a plan for what I wanted to do after college, I became a hermit in my dorm room, reading the latest rumors about Michigan’s point guard or watching a video about an upcoming matchup. Instead of studying for my accounting classes (man, I hate accounting), I was trying to figure out whether that 17-year-old high school running back was really going to flip his commitment from Notre Dame to Michigan. (He didn’t.)

I think it’s strange to be a sports fan because it means investing resources—time, money, and emotions—into something we can’t control. It’s strange to be a sports fan because sometimes it feels like sitting down at a roulette table.

Of course, sports are important. At a societal level, sports give us stories. There’s the gritty underdog athlete who wins a championship against all the odds and fuels the work ethic of a million starstruck children. There’s the courageous athlete who breaks barriers and inspires others to do the same.

But at the societal level, sports fandom also shows us the ugly side of in-group psychology. We love our teams, but we also demonize our rivals, even when they’re just like us. We think less critically when presented with information that favors our team. And social media supercharges these tendencies.

A counterpoint: at an individual level, sports fans can minimize the pain of loss at the roulette table. They can avoid putting all of their emotional eggs in one basket by tuning out when their team is bad or investing their fandom in lots of different teams (“yeah, the Trash Pandas kinda stink this year, so I’ve been paying more attention to the IceHogs lately…”).¹

Yet staking one’s emotional well-being on the victories or defeats of strangers feels like the sign of an underdeveloped identity. It feels hollow to bask in the reflected glory of the achievements of people who don’t even know who I am. As a sports fan, I am a passive observer, watching from the sideline. Deriving a sense of self from sports outcomes that can’t be controlled is like outsourcing the development of genuine accomplishments that you can be legitimately proud of.

But it’s all worth it.

Because of the connections we form with each other.

Because of the conversations I can have with my dad and brother even when we’re 1,000 miles apart.

Because of the instant connection and camaraderie with strangers, the knowing looks, the playful teasing with rival fans. (That’s four in a row, Ohio State.)

Because of the way I can stay in touch with college friends I barely see because we can always hop into our group chat to complain about the damn refs or the damn play-calling or just plain bad luck.

It doesn’t always make sense, but it doesn’t have to make sense.

Go Blue.