Like most children growing up, I never could’ve dreamed I’d be running marathons. I mean, I never thought I’d even be running, period. Like, who chooses to run for fun? But, thanks to my dad, I was introduced to the wonderful sport at just the right time in my life. It would take awhile to stick with it, but once I did, my relationship to sports—and life—changed forever.
Growing up, I rarely missed a televised New York Yankees game (you can start sending me your hate mail now). Each game meant the world to me, all (gulp) 162 of them. Despite no connection to the team, the city, or even the sport (I played baseball for just one year), a Yankees win, for me, was a triumphant success and a loss an embarrassing failure.
Everyone knows the Yankees are supposed to win every year—that used to be the thinking during their heyday, at least. Each year I would endure deep, self-inflicted pain watching “my team”—a team I shared with millions of others—get eliminated from the playoffs. It felt like a personal affront, in a way. My identity was tied to being a fan of the team and my happiness was determined by the team’s success. It was toxic, and it’s often the downside of being a diehard sports fan. Each year, I’d do it all over again, and experience plenty of unnecessary stress and anxiety.
I wasted a great deal of time and energy each summer night plopping myself in front of the television with my eyes glazed over as I anxiously watched each game. I could’ve joined other neighborhood kids outside in their own (more meaningful) baseball games. Or swam in the neighborhood community pool. Or simply spent more time with family.
Riding the pine
I was a benchwarmer in every sport I played. You develop a unique perspective watching the action from out of bounds when you rarely play in the game. Perhaps it’s what led me to become a rabid tv-watching sports fan. Those who can’t do, watch, right? If I couldn’t play, then I’d get fulfillment by watching others excel from afar, whether that meant “riding the pine” on the sideline or tuning the television to “the big game” from the couch. Of course, the “big game” was always quite small in the scheme of the sport and my life.
Without getting the opportunity to play, I lived vicariously through the “superhumans” I watched on television every night. The professional athletes seemed like a different species. I was in awe of the size of football players, the athleticism of basketballers, and the coordination of baseball players because I was so scrawny and clumsy. If I couldn’t play sports then at least I could latch on to the fleeting fandom of a professional sports team—often a fruitless endeavor, I would learn.
With age, I started to realize that watching sports was merely an entertaining way to pass the time—akin to watching movies or playing video games—and a lot of time sure does pass during professional sports games. Win or lose, I had nothing to show for my fandom when the clock expired or the ninth inning ended. It didn’t add value to my life beyond providing mindless entertainment.
Becoming an athlete
Over the years, as I gravitated towards running—or, rather, was forced into it by my strict father, I started to realize I could be an athlete on my own terms. I didn’t have to wait for a coach to “put me in” because there was no coach, no team, and most importantly, no bench. I could run whenever I wanted, wherever I wanted, with no judgment from teammates or crowds.
As this realization took hold, my sports fandom waned dramatically. The more I ran, the less interested I was in watching sports. Because it’s just so much more meaningful (and fun) to “do” than watch. I went from pinning my hopes and dreams on a professional sports team to creating my own “team,” consisting of one runner, and taking control of my own sports destiny. I started training for and running marathons, setting goals (running marathons under three hours), breaking PRs, and, yes, enduring disappointments. Instead of deriving happiness and fulfillment from others’ accomplishments, I now derive pleasure and pain from my own performance on the racecourse.
I went from cheering for a bunch of strangers getting paid millions of dollars as part of a marathon-long MLB season, to being on the receiving end of cheers from a bunch of strangers lining the racecourse as I’m running marathons for fun. Sure, these strangers root for everyone out on the course, but it doesn’t change the significance or impact.
My own biggest fan
While I still watch an occasional playoff baseball game and a good amount of the NBA and NFL playoffs, the stakes that once seemed so high never felt more inconsequential. I no longer have favorite teams in any sport. I’m both my favorite athlete and team—of one. Although I never stepped foot on the court or field for very long, I found a permanent home on the pavement of the roads that make up the area I call home. I don’t need to wonder when or if I’ll get the opportunity to play. Running is always on my own terms and schedule. Because running is the one sport that puts the metaphorical “ball” in your “court,” despite having neither.
Nowadays, I rarely miss a scheduled training run. After family, each day’s run is my top priority; my life would feel incomplete without running. As for watching sports, games come and go, but running is a permanent part of my life. But as much as I love running, and as happy as it makes me to lace up my shoes and take to the roads, my identity is never tied to it. Because, unlike being a diehard sports fan, running is a recipe for fulfillment and happiness. The antithesis of that? No thanks. Been there, done that.
