Are you closely monitoring Arian Foster’s preseason reps with the Miami Dolphins? Do you think he has the potential to come back and run for yardage totals anywhere close to the impressive numbers he amassed during his pre-injury peak?
If you did not immediately have some kind of answer to these two questions, then congratulations, you most likely did not spend the month of August combing through pages of statistics, which may or may not only slightly increase your odds at monetary gain. You are also probably not keeping up with reports from sports media shills who are in the business of fabricating news out of athletes’ mundane daily routines to get clicks. You might even be enjoying the summer sun. You made the right choice. Everyone else, keep reading as I talk myself through this dumb hobby.
For all the talk about sports being an escape from reality, the reason so many of us enjoy them is the same reason many people enjoy video games or trash television: they are just close enough to life itself that, for the time we spend indulging in them, we feel apart of something. Better yet, that something isn’t necessarily happening to us, like missing a green light or getting unexpectedly charged an exorbitant gratuity, so we can be as attached or unattached as we want.
Going a step further, sometimes sports can function as a perfect facsimile for life, really. Excessive hope leading to monumental disappointment; lowered expectations giving way to delightful surprises; and beauty presenting itself as madness, or vice versa. At various points over the last eighteen months or so, Leicester City F.C. has embodied all of these. Yet now, only one distinction matters to the team and its fans: champions of England.