Monday, April 21, 2025
I am 64 years old. I have lived a full life, raised a family, built a career and seen the world change in ways I never imagined. But when one of my favorite sports teams takes the field, I’m still a 12-year-old boy, heart pounding, stomach twisting, living and dying with every play or at-bat.
A great touchdown catch or a clutch base hit still sends me into wild fist pumping. A botched play or a baffling coaching decision has me pacing the room, muttering in disbelief.
The baseball season just started, and I moaned about the Mets’ slow start in a sports text thread. One of my friends texted, “They’ve faced strong pitching.” I responded, “Aren’t they supposed to have a strong lineup and that Soto guy?” The same friend wrote: “It’s one week, calm down.”
When you’re a fan, calm isn’t your default state of mind. This isn’t a hobby — it’s a lifelong relationship. And like any deep, long-term commitment, it started early.
I still remember my first baseball game. I was 7, holding my father’s hand as we made our way through the crowded concourse of Yankee Stadium. Though I was a Mets fan, we went with family friends. The air smelled of hot dogs, beer and cigars.
Two years later, I went to my first football game, also in Yankee Stadium. I’m a Giants fan, and on that October Sunday my dad and I watched Big Blue defeat the then St. Louis Cardinals. Sitting around us were football fans who held transistor radios to their ears so they’d know what penalty had been called and exactly where the ball was on the field. At the time, no planet-sized TV screen showed the previous play seconds after it ended.
Sports fandom isn’t just about watching games — it’s about the rituals, the superstitions, the little things we do that make us feel like we’re part of something bigger. For me, it started with where I sat to watch at home. Every time my team was in the playoffs, I had to be in the same spot on the couch. Not just the same couch — the same spot on that couch.
Before the most recent two Super Bowls that the Giants played in (and won), I had to watch the movie “Friday Night Lights” two hours before game time. Was there any logical reason to believe that watching a film about high school football would influence the outcome of a Super Bowl? Of course not. But did I dare test my illogical theory by not watching it? Absolutely not.
If you ask any true sports fan why they put themselves through the emotional rollercoaster of fandom, they’ll tell you the highs are worth the lows. And it’s true — when my team wins, when they pull off an improbable comeback or dominate their opponent, it’s pure joy. The kind of joy that makes you jump up and down like a kid on his birthday.
But the lows? Oh, the lows hurt. A blown lead, a boneheaded play that costs the game, a gut-wrenching loss — they stay with you. You replay them in your head and commiserate about them with friends.
People who don’t follow sports don’t get it. They ask why I let a game played by people I’ve never met affect me so deeply. Or they ask whether I have a big bet on the game.
But it’s not just a game. It’s a connection — to my childhood, to my father, who took me to those first games, to my friends who have shared in the victories and defeats. It’s a constant in a world that constantly changes.
At 64, I’m not the same person I was at 12. But when my team takes the field, that kid inside me comes roaring back across the decades, full of hope, excitement and the unshakable belief that this time, maybe this time, we’ll win it all.
Jeffrey Bessen is the managing editor of Herald Community Media.
