Hooray sports! That’s what I say when people start talking about their favorite teams, stats, trades, or why a certain player is the GOAT. Not “hooray sports” in a deeply analytical, ESPN-level way. Not “hooray sports” in a screaming-at-the-TV-in-a-jersey way. No, I say it in the “I have absolutely no idea what’s going on but I love the energy in this room” kind of way.
Let me be clear—I respect sports. Deeply. I admire the discipline, the physical talent, the strategy, the drama. But when it comes to understanding the rules, the plays, or why fans get so emotionally wrecked after a loss… I’m lost. Still, there’s something magical about sports that keeps me coming back, even as a clueless observer. Something bigger than scores and standings.
Maybe it started with childhood gym class trauma. While others dashed across the field like young Olympians, I was the kid who ducked when someone threw a dodgeball and secretly hoped for rain to cancel track day. But even then, even from the sidelines, there was something about the camaraderie of sports that I couldn’t deny.
Fast-forward to adulthood, and my feelings about sports have evolved into something weirdly affectionate. I may not know the difference between a pick-and-roll and a flea flicker, but I love game day food, I love the drama, and I love how sports have a mysterious power to bring people together.
Take the Super Bowl, for instance. I attend every year (as in, I go to someone’s house who owns a television and makes nachos). I watch the commercials like a scholar studying ancient texts. I clap when everyone else claps. I cheer when there’s a touchdown, even if I have no idea what just happened. I yell “Go sports!” and I mean it. I’m not there for the rules—I’m there for the vibe.
The Olympics? Count me in. I don’t follow competitive swimming during the off-years, but you better believe I’ll tear up watching someone win gold by two-tenths of a second. I’ll suddenly have strong opinions about ice dancing or curling or synchronized diving. For two weeks, I transform into an armchair expert—then just as quickly go back to not knowing how many innings are in a baseball game (it’s nine, right?).
What I love most about sports isn’t necessarily the competition itself, but what surrounds it. The way a city rallies behind its team, draping buildings in banners and throwing parades in the streets. The way generations of fans pass down jerseys like heirlooms, bonding over heartbreak and triumph. The inside jokes. The superstitions. The weird rituals like wearing lucky socks or refusing to wash a certain hat. It’s a language, a culture, a collective experience.
And then there’s sports bars. Nothing quite like a room full of strangers yelling at giant TVs in unison. I love watching the way people become unglued when their team scores, how they high-five strangers like they’ve known each other for years. It’s community in its rawest form. It’s joy and agony. It’s loud. It’s contagious.
I once attended a live basketball game even though I only vaguely understood how the scoring worked. But let me tell you—I had the time of my life. The energy was electric. I yelled when other people yelled. I danced when the crowd cam caught us. I bought a pretzel the size of my face and felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I didn’t need to know the stats to feel the excitement of a buzzer-beater shot or the drama of a ref making a bad call (I booed right along with the best of them).
And of course, sports teach us life lessons—perseverance, teamwork, humility in defeat. Even I, on the sidelines of fandom, recognize that. I admire athletes’ resilience. I respect coaches who inspire. And I’ve learned that even if you don’t understand every rule of the game, you can still learn something just by watching the way people care.
Also, the fashion is underrated. A team jersey can be a whole look. I once wore a jersey to a game just to blend in and ended up getting high-fived by a dozen people. No one asked if I knew the player on the back. They just welcomed me. That’s the magic of sports. It’s open arms. It’s tribal paint. It’s love.
I have friends who live and breathe this stuff. They know who’s injured, who got traded, who’s starting next season, and how that affects the whole franchise. Sometimes I try to follow the conversation, nodding along like I’m solving a complex math problem in my head. Other times I lean in, wide-eyed, and ask, “Wait, what’s a free agent again?” And they tell me. Patiently. Because true sports fans love nothing more than to share their passion.
I’ve seen grown men cry after a championship win. I’ve seen lifelong friendships form in line at the stadium. I’ve seen kids playing catch in the yard, dreaming of becoming the next star. And all of it makes me believe that, even if I don’t know every play, every rule, or every stat, I still belong. Because the joy is real. The love is real. The community is real.
So yes—hooray sports! Hooray for the games I don’t understand but love to watch. Hooray for the food, the face paint, the fantasy leagues, and the team chants. Hooray for the fans who scream at the TV and the ones who sit silently with fingers crossed. Hooray for the heartbreak and the thrill. Hooray for the way sports give people something to believe in, something to fight for, something to scream about at 1 a.m.
I may never be a true sports expert. I may never understand what offside means in hockey. But I’ll always show up, clap at the right times (mostly), and cheer with my whole heart. Because when it comes down to it, sports aren’t just about winning or losing. They’re about showing up—for each other, for your team, for the love of the game.
And that’s something I can root for. Loudly.
Hooray sports.
