Some may view it as an unhealthy obsession in many regards, but I’m kind of a sports junkie. For some sports, like hockey, golf, tennis, rugby and Olympic curling, I may be little more than a casual fan, but for better or worse, there is a pretty good chance I have at least a cursory knowledge of the rules and the major players on the biggest stages of those respective sports. Then there are those sports that demand way more of my attention than is perhaps prudent. To someone like – oh, I don’t know, let’s just say my wife, for example – who lacks the proper sophistication and appreciation for such passions, such emotional investment is incomprehensible, if not ridiculous.
My wife’s tolerance level for my infatuation with sports notwithstanding, I haven’t figured out a way to rid myself of my attachment to athletic competition. The beginning of the season, whatever sport it may be, is always filled with eager anticipation and optimism. And, of course, the end-of-season championship runs are always thrilling in some way or another. Perhaps my favorite season, though, is that sweet spot in early winter where my favorite sports are all in season. It’s a blessed intersection as my high school girls’ basketball team starts to come together, the college football season is winding down, the National Football League (NFL) is barreling toward the playoffs, college basketball season is heating up, and the National Finals Rodeo (NFR) is taking Vegas by storm. Picture, if you will, the Olympic rings and that spot in the middle of the logo where all five rings meet. It’s athletic nirvana.
I have to admit that passionate fandom can take a toll. From an objective and unattached perspective, it must certainly seem absurd that I would attach my happiness and emotional stability to the relative success in an athletic competition of a group of 18- to 23-year-olds with whom I have no personal connection. Honestly, why should it matter to me that the backup safety entered the transfer portal or that Stetson Wright missed his horse out in the fifth round of the NFR?
I can come up with several reasons or excuses as to why I care, and they may or may not seem valid. I’m sure it depends on whom I’m lamenting to. My first thought is that I simply don’t know. It’s just how I am. But honestly, I think there’s more to it than that.
Sports and the accompanying passion allow me to connect with other people with whom I may otherwise have no affiliation. That is generally a good thing if the love of my teams doesn’t evolve into hatred for someone else simply because they may feel just as passionate for my teams’ rivals. Sports can be a great tool to unite people. It can be a bridge and a healing mechanism to help mend fences and a balm to emotional wounds that may otherwise remain unattended. I can always talk to my sons about the college football playoffs when I have no idea how to explain my screwups and shortcomings as a parent. And lastly, at least for my purposes, the sports world offers an endless supply of “life lesson” stories that can inspire and motivate even the nerdiest among us.
I could easily rattle off a dozen inspirational quotes and tales of heroism and overcoming the odds and battling adversity and losing and winning from my own experiences and those of thousands of athletes throughout the history of sports. Most of the examples are relatable to most people and inspire visions of self-improvement and offer hope to the underdog in each of us.
The trouble I’ve found with inspirational sports analogies is that they don’t always easily translate into the everyday situations and dilemmas of us everyday folks in the everyday world. In sports, most things are quantifiable in yards or points or wins or losses. In the real world, the success and the victories aren’t always as easy to recognize.
There is a lesson in the world of athletics and the world of the rest of us that I believe is underrated and difficult to learn. It’s the lesson of contentment. Too often, in a world where we’re constantly encouraged and prodded into thinking that we should always reach higher and be willing to do whatever it takes to progress to the next step, contentment is a lost and underappreciated attribute. But I think excellence and achievement can coexist with contentment.
Contentment should not be placed on the same shelf as complacency. The freshman girl with marginal God-given talent who sits on the bench and only gets into the junior varsity game for two minutes of garbage time can find, and is just as deserving of, contentment as the all-around champion who secured the championship with a 90-point bull ride in the 10th round of the NFR. If you’re doing the best that you can in whatever arena you’re standing – the court, the field, the classroom, the boardroom, the feedyard, the shop, the hayfield or the family kitchen table – contentment can be every bit as rewarding as achievement and can be valued as achievement in and of itself.
I’m slowly learning that the gift and reward of contentment is truly attainable, and it’s an overlooked goal that is most certainly worth reaching for – no matter what game you may be playing.
