I’ve been here before.

The swarms of butterflies in the stomach, the inability to sit still, nerves worn close to the skin. Many might say it was foolish to get so worked up over a game – but as children, we spend some formative years, watching those players who would be our giants. And they are special. Attachments develop (it would not be too strong to say bonds) with the heroes on the field, in whose place, you imagine yourself.

They do what we wish we could, and they excel in ways we can’t. They act out epic dramas in worlds circumscribed by known rules, where achievement is measured through hard work and dedication to honing one’s skill. They wear our passions on their sleeve, in good games and bad.

They are our surrogates for our own dreams, in ways both big and small.

And when they stand on the edge of achieving history, of becoming, for a moment which will be frozen for all of time, recognised as the greatest champions of the sport, *we are right there with them*. breath for breath, swing for swing. it’s not overstating the case. They are playing for us, and we are playing with them.

Tying your emotions to the fate of hometown team is risky, no doubt. Inevitably, we try to protect ourselves from the possibility of heartbreak. After all, games are defined by both winners and losers. But doing so only dampens the experience of what sport is all about. Dreams, passions, dramas, and heroes.

After all, only when you know where the bottom of the mountain lies, can you truly experience the thrill of the most dizzying heights. And the heights are there to be scaled.

In the end, one team has to win it all. And it could very well be yours.

You gotta believe.

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