My beloved Duke Men’s Basketball Team lost in the semi-finals of the annual madness that is the NCAA Tournament Saturday night, and it left me emotionally gutted.  We had lost to our bitter rivals sporting the tackier shade of blue just down the road.  Our players had acquitted themselves wonderfully over the last couple of weeks but fallen one game short of their goal.  Our legendary coach had now coached his last game and would be riding off into the sunset as a result.  The majority of the American sports public gleefully reveled in our loss, soaking in the annual schadenfreude of seeing Duke eliminated from the tournament in those years when we didn’t take home the crown.  And I was left spent, emotionally raw, and wondering what might have been.

American college sports fans are notoriously passionate, and Duke basketball fans particularly so even within this zealous sub-group.  And while I am not the most outrageous Duke fan or sports fan more broadly that I know, I’m certainly in the upper echelon of people who track my teams’ progress, watch every game, and occasionally travel to see them play.  Is it rational that my emotional well-being is somewhat dependent upon a group of 18-22 year-olds that I have never, and likely will never, meet? Certainly not.  That the retirement of a man who I watched coach and heard speak a few times on my college campus almost 30 years ago should affect me this profoundly?  I wholly understand why an outsider observer or sports agnostic would think me and my ilk unbalanced and sorely needing a reassessment of our collective priorities.  Sports and sports fandom certainly can bring out the worst in people, as we’ve tragically seen with fan violence time and again.  But it does have a wonderful ability to forge bonds, maintain ties, and build shared experience.

During Duke’s latest charge for a sixth national championship, I was often reminded of the many boons that sports fandom has brought to my life.  The connections that have been sustained or rekindled through the love of my teams.  The supportive texts from my brothers and parents.  The Facebook Messenger chats with a friend from my freshman dorm, complaining about the defense.  The WhatsApp messages with my senior roommate about some bullshit refereeing.  The iMessages from a theater friend sharing her pictures from the tournament games.  I even flew to a game in Las Vegas this past November where I met up with old friends and made new ones.  All because we, at one time or another, passed through the same ridiculously-priced (albeit gorgeous), largely privileged institution in North Carolina.  Or just happen to love the team, its history, its players, and tradition.  It’s such a comforting feeling to walk into a bar, see someone in your colors, and know instantly that you have something to talk about.  An unspoken bond and camaraderie.  A similar, shared language and passion bordering on obsession.

You may rightfully argue that sports fandom has a terribly ugly side that manifests itself in violent, sometimes misogynistic, and despicable ways.  Here in my home country of Mexico, 26 fans were hospitalized after fan violence at Liga MX soccer game in Queretaro last month.  Moreover, Mexico, a country full of otherwise friendly, warm, and beautiful people, has repeatedly been sanctioned for homophobic chants at their national team games.  In leagues throughout Europe, players have been racially abused by so-called fans after penalty misses and poor performances.  And this is just in soccer, which happens to be the most popular global sport but far from the only one that suffers from asinine behavior bordering on and venturing into the criminal.

Sports fandom at its worst is hideous and appalling to behold, but I believe that this represents the minority of the people and the interactions associated with it.  On the whole, you see people coming together to form communities.  Depending on the team in question, it often brings together people from vastly different socio-economic, ethnic, and geographic communities.  When I lived in Rio de Janeiro, I was taken in by a wonderful, generous group of cariocas who took me to over 20 Flamengo soccer matches.  I have walked into a bar in Beirut, Lebanon resplendent in my Manchester United jersey and immediately been invited to sit down with a group of similarly-clad strangers.  I have been stopped in the streets of Berlin, Capetown, Recife, and St. Petersburg during various World Cups to talk USA Soccer because I was sporting my national team jersey.  And while my vast collection of Duke shirts, shorts, and sweatshirts often don’t engender the best reaction from the legions of haters, my royal blue-wearing faithful always welcomes me with open arms and open bar tabs.

At 47 years of age, the results of sporting events probably shouldn’t have the power to affect me this much emotionally.  And yet they do.  I remain crushed by our team’s loss the other night.  Proud of all that our men accomplished, for sure.  But still gutted.  Those of you who don’t follow or care for sports may dismiss this as misguided passion and misspent energy.  Surely, there are better things to which I could devote my time, talents, and treasure.  But we all have our passions, be it poetry or painting, cycling or climbing, or gardening or gaming.  You may, again with reason, claim that a more active hobby in which you can actually participate makes more sense and represents time better spent.  But I’m willing to bet that, however solitary your chosen pastime, these experiences connect you to a broader community.  Even if you ride, garden, or game alone, you share a common vocabulary.  Similar interests and experiences.  A common passion for that which you love.  And this draws you together.  Just as sports draws me together with my fellow fan bases and allows us to revel in the infrequent joys of victory and console each other in the all-too-familiar throes of defeat.

So as I reflect on the seeming inanity of my continued obsession with Duke basketball (among other sports loves), I try to see the positive in it.  I remind myself that caring too deeply can be a beautiful thing.  Living a life full of emotion, even profound disappointment, is eminently preferably to one devoid of such passion.  Many of my friends cannot understand why I schedule my life around the competitive enterprises of teenagers and twenty-somethings.  But it offers me so much more than it requires in return.  And so I bear today’s sadness knowing that I share it with my community and that the promise of future glory and ecstasy awaits.  If you really care that deeply, invest in every season knowing its likely unsuccessful end, and suffer the repeated blows of painful losses, those elusive wins and championships—if you’re lucky enough to root for such a team—taste that much sweeter.  The celebrations more earned.  The passion more visceral and overwhelming.  I’ll take the head-in-my-hands agony time and again for the one glorious moment of bounding around alone in my living room after meaningful victory.  And I’ll keep caring as much as I do, even if it takes this much out of me.  For the friendships.  For the bonds.  For the love of these games, trivial as they might be.  Because even if I don’t play in the games, the rewards to me are real.