If we want it bad enough, if we yell loud enough, if we concentrate hard enough, maybe we'll give our boys the edge they need. Regardless, we're all in. Seeing through their eyes, feeling through their muscles, we risk defeat alongside them, and the payoff is an experience bordering on the religious.
The team affirms who we are. Their tradition = our tradition. Their reputation = our reputation. Their record = our record. Let it be known through our clothes, our ringtone, our Facebook posts: we are true fans for life.
Ah, and the games themselves. The anticipation, the triumph, the group euphoria! That's the high we chase. That's the thrill that vindicates our loyalty. That's why we're fans.
However, there's a dark side.
When cheering for a team causes more anxiety than joy, when it affects how we show up for those we love, when it becomes an excuse for destructive behavior (binge spending, binge drinking, binge raging), when our obsession with the team's journey comes at the expense of our own journey - that's when an innocent hobby has turned toxic.
Once upon a time, this was me. My mood, my esteem and my testosterone levels depended on the athletic performance of strangers. (Your testosterone levels, too, says science - see chapter 21.) I'd celebrate when they won and pout when they lost, sometimes for weeks at a time. Immersed in the delusion that their games had something to do with me, some of my highest thrills and deepest satisfaction came through my team. (Sound familiar?)
While I chose this life, I didn't get it by accident. A billion-dollar industry had been quietly partnering with research psychologists to make me watch more, care more, spend more. Whatever it took to boost my "Psychological Commitment to Team" score (yes, that's a thing), to move me up the "Fan Involvement Ladder" (from suspect to customer to raving fan), to ensure I frequently "BIRGed" (Basked In Reflective Glory) and seldom "CORFed" (Cut Off Reflective Failure) - their marketers had no qualms against doing it.
Today, five years clean, whether my old team wins or loses is of little concern. No longer beholden to the scam, I do my own thing, find satisfaction and excitement through my own adventures, and am happier for it.
Rehab wasn't easy, especially in our sports-crazed culture. But the core realization that made it possible was this: sports teams are mere businesses, fans are mere customers, and life's too short to spend it a glorified cheerleader.
As you read the story of my degeneration into toxic fanaticism in Part I: Fanhood, consider parallels in your own journey. We may not share the same sport or the same team. But we do share the same basic needs, and I'm betting the sports industry manipulated yours in a similar way.
As you absorb the tough love of Part II: Puberty, remember why you're here. One too many weekends wasted? A brokenhearted family member? A sense that the squealing and whining are beneath you? Whatever the case, don't be too hard on yourself, and know that better days are ahead.
And as you begin your new, triumphant chapter with Part III: Manhood, remain strong. Know that your internal "bad wolf" will try to derail your recovery (Turn the game on... Just check the score... You know you wanna). "Kenny Kool-Aids" will emerge with free tickets and promises of championships just around the corner (It's our year - I can feel it!). Resist. Remain vigilant. And begin steeling your will now, for relapse triggers will appear from within, as well as from without, guaranteed.
Fanhood may have served you at one time. But now is the time to put down the pom-poms and throw away that frilly pink skirt.
Welcome to the path of fanhood to manhood
