There’s something primal about sports. The battle. The spectacle. The tension between triumph and heartbreak. For a few hours tomorrow, the Super Bowl will turn into an altar, and millions of die-hard fans, casual viewers, even people who don’t watch football will gather to watch modern-day gladiators fight for a ring.

And for many, that’s all that matters. Win or be nothing.

It’s a nice fantasy. Clean. Simple. Ruthless. But that fantasy is also a lie.

The Pitfalls of Team Fanaticism

For Kansas City and Philadelphia fans, this game isn’t just entertainment. It’s identity. People bleed team colors. They tell stories of where they were for the last Super Bowl win or loss. Some people’s entire emotional state is dictated by the performance of men they’ve never met. It’s not just sports fans. It’s human nature. People want something bigger than themselves. But when does passion become something else?

And then, there are the rational fans, the ones who insist they are different. They aren’t emotional about sports, just analytical. The walking encyclopedias of third-down conversion rates, playoff heartbreaks, and offensive line efficiencies, they believe statistics elevate them above the chaos of pure fandom. But when a fourth-down call goes sideways, even the most data-driven minds have been known to abandon probabilities for exasperated sighs. The pacing, the late-night Reddit debates, the postgame analysis dissected like a Supreme Court ruling, it’s all there. The obsession just wears a different uniform.

Marcus Aurelius wrote, “You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” Most fans, whether they paint their faces or build spreadsheets, do the opposite. Their peace is chained to a scoreboard. If Kansas City wins, there’s a sense of validation. If Philadelphia loses, there’s frustration, misery, or the ever-popular blame game. But none of it is within their control. A Stoic would remind them: the game is meant to be enjoyed, not to own anyone.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said, “We are our choices.” But how many fans actually choose their team? Most inherited it. A birthright. A city. A family tradition. What happens when you tie your identity to something you never consciously chose? Every win feels like personal validation. Every loss feels like an attack. Some fans are notorious for taking it personally. Some wear it like a badge of honor, booing their own players, rioting in celebration, throwing snowballs at Santa Claus. Why? Because for them, the game isn’t a game. It’s a reflection of their worth. But does a team’s performance actually say anything about you? If you weren’t on the field, what exactly did you win or lose? An existentialist would argue that meaning should be chosen, not inherited. Maybe the game should be enjoyed, not used as an emotional crutch.

Laozi (L-ow-dzuh) wrote, “Those who flow as life flows know they need no other force.” Some fans fight reality. They rage against missed calls, agonize over injuries, and convince themselves the universe is out to get their team. But football, like life, follows its own rhythm. A Taoist approach would be simple: watch the game, appreciate the skill, and accept the outcome. Nothing to cling to. Nothing to resist.

The Other Side: The Players and Coaches

For the men on the field, this isn’t fandom. It’s their career. Their legacy. And for many, winning isn’t just a goal. It’s survival.

Tom Brady has seven rings. Seven. But after his third, he said in an interview, “Why do I have three Super Bowl rings and still think there’s something greater out there for me?” Because rings don’t solve existential dread. The greats understand this. Bill Belichick, one of the most Stoic figures in sports, has a simple mantra: “Do your job.” He doesn’t celebrate wins for long, and he doesn’t dwell on losses. He moves forward. The work is the reward. A Stoic player knows they can’t control the outcome, only their effort. The measure of their success isn’t a trophy, but whether they gave everything they had.

Albert Camus once wrote, “The struggle itself… is enough to fill a man’s heart.” But what happens when the struggle is over? Many athletes fall apart after a championship. The goal consumed them for years. Then it’s gone. Michael Jordan, the ultimate competitor, described winning his sixth championship with a mix of satisfaction and emptiness. He walked into the locker room, grabbed a cigar, and sat there alone. The high fades fast. The existentialist question looms: if everything was leading to this moment, what happens when the moment is over?

A Taoist coach wouldn’t be devastated by a Super Bowl loss. Nor would they let a victory define them. They’d understand that every season flows into the next, just like every wave returns to the ocean. Nick Saban famously said, “The process is what matters.” Winning isn’t the goal. It’s the byproduct of discipline, preparation, and effort. A Taoist player or coach wouldn’t fight the outcome. They’d learn from it, adapt, and step onto the field again.

The Myth of Winning and Losing

Some will say this is soft. That winning is everything. That losing is unacceptable. This mindset works, until it doesn’t. If winning is everything, what happens when you lose? If losing is unacceptable, do you stop when it happens? If your worth is tied to a ring, what happens when the next season starts?

Kobe Bryant once said, “It’s the journey that matters. The struggle, the lessons. That’s the real prize.” Not everyone will get that. Some people will keep chasing validation in trophies, in wins, in the thrill of domination. They’ll spend their lives running toward a finish line that keeps moving.

But the greats, the ones who really understand the game, know better. Because the real game isn’t the Super Bowl. It’s life itself. And if you think winning is everything, you’ve already lost.

What Game Are You Playing?

The Super Bowl is entertainment. But how you approach it, whether as a fan, a player, or a coach, mirrors how you approach life. So ask yourself: are you playing for love, or just for validation? Are you in control, or is the game controlling you? What happens when the cheering stops?

Because when the clock hits zero, the only thing left is who you are without it.

Post-Script: A Fan’s Confession

I’d love to say I watch sports with the detached wisdom of a Stoic, the existential self-awareness of Sartre, and the serene acceptance of a Taoist sage. But that would be a lie. Because when it comes to Michigan football, basketball, and pretty much anything with a Block M on it, I am as guilty as anyone of riding the emotional rollercoaster.

Michigan is my Tribe. I was born in Ann Arbor, raised in the maize and blue. I went to Michigan, twice. My family went to Michigan. Bo Schembechler and Jim Harbaugh are basically folk heroes in my house. So when Michigan wins, the world makes sense. When they lose, I experience a brief existential crisis, followed by some rapid-fire rationalizations and an unhealthy amount of brooding. I have stared at a television (or at the field from live in the stands) in complete silence after devastating losses. I have felt a little too good about life after big wins; the Whataburger in Houston after the National Championship win against Washington tasted a little bit too good. I am, in many ways, exactly the kind of fan this blog post warns about.

So yes, this is my moment of humility. I get it. I know better. And yet, I will still be emotionally unwell when my tribe is playing for something big. Maybe that’s just part of the deal. Maybe this type of fanaticism, like any passion, needs to be managed rather than eliminated. Or maybe I just need to go out to the Olympic National Park for a while and meditate. Either way, consider this my formal acknowledgment: I should take my own advice.

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