The Japanese fans stayed after the final whistle. Win or lose, they picked up trash from their section, bagged it, and left the stadium cleaner than they found it. The Jordanian team left something, too — a note for the next team in their locker room and sweets on the table. Kindness, addressed to strangers they'd never meet. And while the media covers this, I don’t think any of it was done for likes or adulation.
Then there was the Argentina fan who found a stranger's wallet in the stands in Dallas, checked the ID inside, and instead of handing it to security, climbed onto a friend's shoulders and led the crowd in a chant — the owner's full name, Juan Manuel Montero, over and over, until the man heard it and came forward. The crowd erupted. Juan later said he hadn't even realized he'd lost it. He was just chanting along with everyone else until the cold realization hit that they were chanting for him. It often takes teamwork to get things done. For some people — my kind of people, that’s the default.
And I think the Scottish fans are still singing — days after their World Cup run ended. I’ll never forget how they took Boston by storm, charmed us, and showed us, with monumental enthusiasm, that we are meant to have fun in this life. I think the 23 year old version of me and my pals would’ve had fun hanging with those young Scots!
This all has me thinking - dozens of nations, from every corner of the world, playing the same sport, under the same rules, on the same size field. The matches are close because the competition is even. And the competition is even because underneath the different uniforms and languages and customs, we are the same. Not similar — the same. We’re just humans, all of us. Whatever divides us on a map dissolves a little when you watch a goalkeeper dive or a striker miss a penalty kick, and you see the same face you've seen on every human face you've ever loved. The joy. The pain. The trying hard. Sport reveals this to us, if we let it. It always has. It trains us for life. That’s why it’s so good for us.
I was reminded of my senior year in college, when our lacrosse team traveled to England to prepare for the season. After the games, both teams would gather for a reception — and what we were really celebrating wasn't the score. It was each other. As a kid growing up at Tabor Academy, I'd seen something similar after football games — both team would change into jackets and ties, and players, parents, and fans would share a room where for an hour, nobody was on opposite sides anymore. This was many years ago. It doesn't happen anymore. I wish it would. Those experiences shaped the way I thought about competition. About what it's actually for. I guess it’s naive to think we could bring some of those customs back. Maybe not? When Molly was sick with cancer, I asked the other coaches in the league if we could begin each game with the handshake line, as well as end it that way. Just as a way to confirm our shared humanity.
There's a passage in James Kerr’s wonderful book, Legacy, about the New Zealand All Blacks rugby team. They call it "sweeping the sheds" — leaving the visitor locker room as clean, or cleaner, than you found it. No one assigns it. No one checks. It's the same discipline that wins them championships. There's only one kind.
I tried to teach this as a coach. Every season we had two goals: win the league championship, and win the sportsmanship award. Because that's it, really. Perform your best. Be kind. Be humble. Be respectfully. Honor the game. Show up for other people. We practiced the handshake line before our first game, every season — drilled it, several takes, until we got it right. Two lines, facing each other. Look the other guy in the eye. Say "good game," or "best of luck the rest of the way." A firm handshake. A hug. Repeat. Whatever just happened on the field — finished. Let it go. Quietly acknowledge the game itself, the trying hard, the effort it took to be there at all. Then the coaches would go last. A hug. A connection. A smile. That's what it's all about. To me, anyway.
We watch this World Cup because we recognize ourselves out there. The big moment. The inner critic. Will I deliver, or will I fail? We've all stood in some version of that handshake line, win or lose, and had to decide who we'd be. Underneath it all, we're just trying to make our way through — the struggles and the triumphs, the heartache and the joy — same as these players, same as every fan in every stadium. In that way, we're not just watching. We're rooting for ourselves. For each other. For our shared humanity, and all that it's capable of. The game draws it out of us. We don’t realize it’s happening until we’re in it.
Across one hemisphere, in stadium after stadium, strangers from everywhere are sweeping the sheds for each other, meeting each other. Affirming our shared humanity through a simple game. Most people are good. Most people want to help and connect with the stranger next to them. The World Cup didn't create that. It just gave it a stage. And what an inspirational stage it is.
This thing we're all in — life, not just the tournament — works better when we remember that.
That’s the ultimate game.
— Pete
Notes arrive on Sundays and some Wednesdays
•
About me, and Practice Notes → here
About Integrative Coaching → here
About my book, The Why of Sports → here
