It’s Just a Game. Except It Isn’t.

A Stoic’s Struggle with the Games We Love

It’s just a game.

I used to say that to my kids after a loss.
After a bad call, a missed shot, a hard fall.

It’s just a game, I’d say—trying to soften the sting, to offer perspective.

But if I’m honest, I don’t always believe it.

Not now.
And not when I was their age.

Back then, I wasn’t a good loser.
I wanted to be. I tried.
But once I started winning—once I knew what victory tasted like—
losing became harder to swallow.

I took it personally.
Every scoreboard felt like a verdict.
Every defeat felt like something had been taken from me: pride, belief, a piece of identity.

And still, sports grew into something I loved—not just for the thrill of victory, but for what they revealed.

I grew up watching Walter Payton run like poetry in motion.
Watched Jordan fly—not just above defenders but above doubt itself.
I sat in the rafters for three Blackhawks Cups, the city electric with hope.
And I’ve lived and breathed every second of two Notre Dame lacrosse championships.

So, no—this isn’t just a game to me.
It’s memory.
It’s connection. Identity.
It’s the place where effort and story collide.

When my Irish went up by six in the Men’s Lacrosse quarterfinals…
and then melted in the fourth…
I felt it. Deeply.

Not just disappointment.
But that old, familiar ache.
The kind you only feel when you care more than you’d like to admit.

And the truth is—I will never take a Notre Dame loss with grace.
Not fully. Not quietly.
Not after the heartbreaks I’ve seen.
And not after the heights I’ve celebrated.

Because sports, to me, are more than games.
They’re echoes of who we were.
Reminders of what we still believe in.
Proof that something inside us still wants to win.

A place where effort meets hope.

And yet—
They are games.

That’s why we play them.
That’s why we come back.
Not because they’re meaningless—
but because they mean just enough.

So let it sting.
Let the season end.
But don’t forget the joy, the effort, the glory.

Even a Stoic can mourn a loss.
What matters is that we don’t let the loss make us forget the joy, the effort, the story.

Grace isn’t pretending not to care.
It’s learning to let things matter—without letting them define you.

That’s why we cheer.
That’s why we mourn.
That’s why we play.