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I have four kids, and with each of them I’ve had the talk.

In this case, the talk isn’t about the birds and the bees but rather The Birds. I.e., the Eagles, plus the Phillies and the Sixers.

The talk was originally precipitated by my first child, Josiah, who at around age 3 or 4 quizzically observed, “Daddy, it scares me when you watch sports and start shouting.” Over the years, variations on this theme from my progeny have included, “Daddy, why do you watch sports when it makes you so mad?,” “Daddy, do you love the Phillies, or hate the Phillies?,” and “Daddy, do you need to go to your room until you’re able to calm down?”

Fair questions, all. I wonder the same things myself. If sports fandom causes me so much agony, why do I keep coming back for more? During the Philly-New England Super Bowl a few years ago, I wore a tee shirt that featured Charlie Brown running with a football while wearing an Eagles helmet. That about sums it up.

(As a side note, there’s some fascinating research out there about sports fans. For example, I recall a few years ago reading about a study of Chicago Cubs diehards: apparently––and this was before they won their World Series––for decades-long followers of the Cubbies, their neurology has become cross-wired such that pleasure pathways and pain pathways are scrambled together. Pain becomes pleasure, and vice versa! I don’t know why that study didn’t get more press. And in completely unrelated news, the Phillies are the losing-est team in the history of American sports.)

It’s a cliché, but where can you use clichés if not sports? “Except for one team each year, every club's season ends in disappointment.” Objectively speaking, loving Philadelphia sports teams is a doomed proposition guaranteeing mostly misery, heartache, and self-recrimination. Which is why when Philly teams start doing Philly team sorts of things, I start shouting.

Maybe I should quit sports, and frankly I’ve come close a few times. My reasoning runs like, “Why don’t I just stick to my books and my music? Sure, there’s tragedy woven into the arts (and artists), but I don’t begin angrily punching walls when I finish a good book or album. Art fandom is safe and nice, and I can pretty easily go for some fromage over French Onion dip.”

There are two reasons as to why I can’t turn in my fan card. One is the communal aspect of it all, which likewise has been researched and documented. If doing community is difficult especially for men––these are generalizations, but still––sports allow us an easy avenue of connection with each other. Whether it’s catching a game together, texting about it, fantasy football, etc., I love being able to do fandom with other people.

The second reason turns theological. During my sermon series from the beginning of Genesis at Liberti Collingswood this past fall, I explored what it means that human beings are created in the “image of God.” Much could, and has, been said about the nature of the imago dei, and for me, one of the richest veins to mine is that as image bearers of our divine creator, we mirror God specifically as we exercise our own creativity. To be human is to make stuff and do new things, whether functionally or whimsically––because God makes stuff and does new things.

And here’s the kernel. I continue to watch sports because any and every time I tune in to a game, I recognize the possibility that I might see something new that I’ve never witnessed before. In that regard, sports surpasses art; the great majority of the time, even masterpieces have antecedents––this novel builds upon that novel, this album develops concepts from that one, and so on. In contrast, I’ve never seen a football game like the Bills-Chiefs on Sunday night, never seen sidearm throws like Patrick Mahomes' or rocket launches like Josh Allen's. I’ve never beheld a seven-footer like Joel Embiid run the break coast-to-coast, or Scott Rolen play third base like both a tank and a dancer at the same time. And maybe next time I’ll see another new thing.

Sure, sports fandom often feels like hell, but don’t discount that we occasionally glimpse heaven––a future reality in Jesus where he promises, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

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