Sports are horseshit

Unpacking a toxic relationship

I’ve spent most of my life passively consumed by an irrational love of sports. I grew up comically unathletic. I was uncoordinated, slow and weak — the type of kid picked last for the recess football squad and cut from every team he ever tried out for.

I could have retreated to books or video games, but a sizeable portion of my youth was spent outdoors, playing road hockey or unsuccessfully trying to learn skateboard tricks. I took gym class throughout high school, even though participation was only mandated for one year. My favourite season used to be winter, when I spent my weekends snowboarding and playing the lowest levels of competitive hockey. Sports captured my imagination, even though I quickly realized my lack of skill.

My interest in professional sports started early too. I was socialized, like any respectable man, to engage in the unhealthy tribalism that comes with basing my entire personality and mood off the accomplishments of millionaire athletes. Like any respectable autist, I also spent hundreds of hours consuming and memorizing stats, history and lore. I was awful at playing sports, but I was a force to be reckoned with when a schoolyard debate broke out about which athlete won what award in what year.

The sports industry loves people like me. They’ll take revenue however they can get it, but if you watch their ads, it’s abundantly clear — pro leagues and teams thrive on unhealthy relationships. Apparel companies want you to prove yourself as a “real fan”. Sports books encourage you to “be part of the action”. Even car advertisements carry on about “the passion that drives hockey” and other non-sequitur bullshit. The message is simple — no regular schlub can be a sports fan. Passion, dedication and (of course) financial investment are essential components of the job description.

This idea is obviously horseshit. They don’t want to admit that you can simply enjoy their product as entertainment for a few hours each week. I’m using “you” royally, of course. I can’t just enjoy the game. My brain is irrevocably broken. When the Buffalo Bills lost on Sunday night — their third playoff defeat in four years at the hands of the Kansas City Chiefs — I damn near had a mental breakdown. Hope was extinguished. Distraction was no longer an option. I took a long, hard look down the barrel of life and felt genuine pain when I saw the bottom. I don’t know why Hunter Thompson titled his suicide note “Football Season is Over”, but I get the sentiment.

(Before you try to 5150 me, please know I’m being hyperbolic)

I don’t like being a grown man whose week is ruined when his team loses a game. It’s embarrassing. I’m at the point where once I feel the anger start to surface, I’ll turn the TV off and do something else. I might check the score on my phone “a couple” times afterwards, but hey, I’m trying. The reality is, being a sports fan usually means letting something beyond your control influence your actions, mood and identity. It’s not healthy.

The depths of this depraved obsession get a lot lower than my own anxiety-fuelled rage. Anyone who has engaged with the Toronto Maple Leafs on social media knows there are hundreds of grown men who spend numerous hours a day spewing hatred at athletes, coaches and front office personnel. Anyone who feels and publicly expresses genuine anger for a hockey player when the game isn’t on should immediately be institutionalized, if for no other reason than sparing the rest of the world from their inane nonsense.

Things are getting worse too. We live in the 24 hour information cycle, in a landscape pioneered by the fine folks at ESPN. Buffoonery and “hot takes” drive clicks and views, so sports media personalities deal exclusively in ridiculous proclamations. Fans have followed suit, and now it seems like hyperbolic tantrums make up the foundation of every sports discussion.

Imagine thinking LeBron James is a “bum” and a “fraud” for only winning four NBA championships instead of six. Most people who talk like that will never even win employee of the month at Jiffy Lube. Imagine being a 30-year old man typing “the Dallas Cowboys are a joke” from a phone registered to your parents’ “family plan”. Shit, people will literally spend hours running accounts devoted to hating specific teams and players instead of seeking gainful employment.

Sure, the social media discourse has a very deep thread of irony. Most people, if pressed, will claim they’re “just trolling”. But as the algorithm does its thing, people dig deeper and deeper into the muck. Humour turns to anger. The joke becomes indecipherable from reality. Next thing you know, you’re sitting on the couch in stained sweatpants, consumed by rage and takeout boxes. Lamar Jackson has two NFL MVPs and a $50 million salary. You have high blood pressure and an unhappy girlfriend. Hey, at least the NPCs who populate your Instagram feed know LamaRB1 will never (in your important and discerning opinion) be the GOAT.

The sad thing is, sports can be so much fun. Many of my favourite memories involve being at a game, watching TV with friends, or running through a muddy field chasing some sort of ball. I’m starting to see now, those moments are more about relationships than the outcome of the game.

Don’t get me wrong, the game is great too. Competition is exciting. Feats of superhuman athleticism are breathtaking. Team camaraderie tugs at the heartstrings. None of it matters, though. Thanos could snap every pro athlete out of existence tomorrow and the long term future of our society would be no better or worse off. So don’t let advertisers gaslight you into being proud of yourself for sitting on the couch, decked out in overpriced athleisure, yelling obscenities at your TV.

We all do it, but it’s not a positive character trait. It’s a lot closer to mental illness. Besides, the Bills are never going to win anything anyway. Neither are the Leafs. This shit is all just pain, unless you were lucky enough to be born in Boston. Fuck sports.

…Maybe 2024 is the year I get into fashion.