When Did We Stop Talking About the Game?

For most of my life, sports occupied a much larger place than they do today.

Growing up in Northern California, I listened to Giants games on the radio with Russ Hodges describing every pitch as though it were the most important one ever thrown. I argued with friends about whether Willie Mays was better than Mickey Mantle. During my college years, I followed Stanford football through some very lean seasons and somehow remained optimistic every September. Later, while living in Southern California, I became a UCLA basketball fan and watched a young Lew Alcindor—who would later become Kareem Abdul-Jabbar—change the game before our eyes.

Sports weren’t simply something I watched.

They were part of my life.

Today, I still make time for the Giants, the 49ers, and Stanford football, although Stanford now seems to play conference games somewhere near the Atlantic Ocean.

But somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t following sports the way I once did.

At first, I assumed it was simply because I was getting older.

But the more I thought about it, the less convinced I became.

I don’t think I lost interest in sports.

I think sports gradually became something different from the games I grew up with.

There wasn’t one defining moment. No single decision changed everything. Instead, dozens of small changes accumulated over twenty or thirty years until one day I realized I wasn’t experiencing sports the way I once had.

Perhaps it’s me.

Perhaps it’s sports.

More likely, it’s both.

It Used to Be About the Team

When I was growing up, you followed a team. More importantly, you built relationships with players that lasted for years.

Willie Mays was a Giant. John Brodie was a 49er. Bill Walsh became synonymous with San Francisco football. Joe Montana wasn’t just a quarterback; he became the face of an era. You didn’t have to wonder where your favorite player would be next season because, more often than not, he’d still be wearing the same uniform.

The rivalries carried history with them. Yankees versus Red Sox. Dodgers versus Giants. Michigan versus Ohio State. Notre Dame versus USC. Stanford versus Cal.

Every season became another chapter in a story that had already been unfolding for decades.

Today that connection feels different.

Fans often follow players as much as teams. Fantasy sports reward individual statistics more than victories. Social media has turned athletes into personal brands. Free agency, NIL, and the transfer portal mean the roster you’re cheering for this season may look completely different a year from now.

I’m not suggesting that’s wrong.

I’m simply observing that it creates a relationship with sports that I no longer recognize very well.

College Sports Lost Something

For me, the biggest change has probably been college athletics.

I still care about Stanford because that’s where I spent some of the most important years of my life.

But Stanford in the Atlantic Coast Conference?

Give me a break.

Conference names have become marketing brands instead of geographic descriptions. Rivalries built over generations have been abandoned because television contracts offered more money somewhere else. Schools now fly across the country for what are supposed to be conference games.

Then came the transfer portal and NIL.

I understand why both developed. College athletes create enormous value and deserve opportunities previous generations never had.

But as a fan, I find myself asking a simple question.

Why should I become emotionally invested in a team that may not resemble itself next season?

The players change.

The coaches change.

The conferences change.

The rivalries fade.

The traditions become harder to recognize.

When Did We Stop Talking About the Game?

One of the biggest changes may not be what happens on the field.

It may be what we talk about.

Growing up, the conversations centered on the game.

Was Willie Mays better than Mickey Mantle?

Could Sandy Koufax beat Bob Gibson?

Would the Giants finally catch the Dodgers?

Was Terry Bradshaw really that good?

Was Joe Montana even better?

Could USC beat Alabama?

Today the conversation often starts somewhere else.

How much was the contract?

What’s the salary cap?

Who won free agency?

What’s the betting line?

How much is the franchise worth?

Take Shohei Ohtani.

I think he’s one of the most extraordinary baseball players I’ve ever seen. I also root against the Dodgers every chance I get. Some things never change.

But $700 million?

That’s no longer a sports contract.

It’s the acquisition of a global entertainment asset.

Before Ohtani ever throws a pitch, we’re discussing deferred contracts, luxury taxes, endorsement deals, and franchise valuations.

The financial story often arrives before the baseball story.

At some point we stopped asking, “Who won the game?” and started asking, “What was the contract worth?”

Fantasy Sports and Gambling

Fantasy sports changed something fundamental.

Instead of cheering only for your team, many fans began cheering for individual statistics.

Your quarterback could lose the game while your fantasy team had a terrific weekend.

Then gambling moved from the sidelines to the center of the broadcast.

Point spreads appear on television.

Pregame shows discuss betting lines.

Entire networks exist to help people place wagers.

Clearly millions of fans enjoy it.

I’ve simply never understood it.

Part of that comes from my own experience.

During my undergraduate years at Stanford, our football team won only eight or nine games over five seasons. Yet somehow, we could lose to San Jose State one week and then turn around and beat a national championship contender like Ohio State or Michigan the next.

Trying to predict Stanford football would have been an expensive hobby.

That experience taught me something.

Sports are wonderfully unpredictable.

That’s what makes them fun.

Gambling assumes you can predict them.

I’ve never been able to reconcile those two ideas.

Ironically, I’ve now lived in Reno for more than twenty years, where gambling is one of the city’s largest industries. During all that time, I think I’ve wagered a grand total of about five dollars.

Apparently, I’m not much of a customer.

Even the Biggest Events Changed

I remember the very first Super Bowl in 1967.

It wasn’t even sold out. Most people had no idea it would become America’s biggest annual sporting event.

Then Joe Namath came along, and professional football seemed to take another giant step forward.

Today the Super Bowl is much bigger than football.

It’s the commercials.

The halftime show.

The celebrity appearances.

The prop bets.

The billions of dollars wagered.

Sometimes I wonder whether football is still the main event.

How We Got Here

I don’t think anyone intentionally set out to change sports.

Sports simply evolved because millions of fans responded to new opportunities.

Television followed the audience.

Streaming followed the audience.

Fantasy sports followed the audience.

Gambling followed the audience.

Universities followed television money.

Professional leagues followed global markets.

Every individual change made sense.

Together they transformed what it means to be a sports fan.

Sports are becoming what today’s fans seem to want them to be.

That isn’t necessarily better or worse.

It’s simply different.

Looking Back

Perhaps that’s the question I’ve really been asking.

Not where sports are headed. But where I fit into them.

Maybe younger fans enjoy this version of sports every bit as much as my generation enjoyed ours.

Every generation experiences sports differently.

I was fortunate enough to grow up with Russ Hodges on the radio, Vin Scully making even Dodger games enjoyable to listen to, Willie Mays patrolling center field, Lew Alcindor changing college basketball, Bill Walsh reinventing professional football, Joe Montana calmly leading fourth-quarter drives, and Barry Bonds making forty thousand people stop talking every time he walked toward home plate.

Those weren’t simply great athletes.

They became familiar companions over many years.

Today players move more frequently. Conferences change. Teams relocate. Announcers come and go. The business of sports continues to grow, and perhaps that’s exactly what today’s fans want.

I don’t begrudge them that.

Every generation builds its own traditions.

Mine just happened to revolve around teams that stayed together, rivalries that lasted for decades, and conversations that focused on the game instead of the business surrounding it.

As for me, I’ll still watch the Giants.

I’ll still cheer for the 49ers.

I’ll still hope Stanford wins, even if I occasionally need a map to find the conference opponent.

The athletes are remarkable.

The competition is extraordinary.

The business has never been stronger.

I’m just not convinced the experience is better.

Perhaps I’m simply from a different era of sports.

I still think the game ought to be the main attraction.