One experience that completely altered my brain chemistry was being an exchange student in the U.S. As a passionate sports fan, I felt like I had landed in the ultimate playground. I thought I understood fandom—after all, I lived and breathed sports—but I quickly realized I had only scratched the surface.
In Nebraska, I didn’t just watch the games; I became part of the team. The structure was simple yet powerful: wear red—preferably a Huskers shirt—and gather to watch the game. It wasn’t just about supporting a team; it was about belonging to something bigger. It was about being part of a family, one that cheered together, suffered together, and carried the weight of every win and loss as if we had played the game ourselves.
Back home, I had always been meticulous about game days. I sat in the same spot, ate the same meal in the same order, and followed a set routine, believing in the ritualistic power of sports. But that year in the U.S. reinforced something even deeper: the act of wearing the team’s colors wasn’t just about superstition—it was about unity. In basketball, you became the sixth player; in soccer, the twelfth. Wins felt sweeter, losses more bearable.
For the first time, my passion and my superstitions weren’t seen as something odd or obsessive. No one joked about my routines or questioned why I cared so much. Instead, they understood—because they felt the same way. There, being too invested in sports wasn’t a weakness; it was a shared language, a badge of honor.
Plus, something strange happened. Every time I wore the shirt, they won. Coincidence? Maybe. But for a sports fan wired like me, it became law. I held onto that belief like it was part of the playbook. When I returned home, I kept wearing the color instead of the official shirt—but the outcome changed. If they won, I’d wear it again. If they lost, it was banished from my game-day routine. The same superstition that once kept the ritual alive now dictated its every move.
That year, I made one (big) mistake—I forgot to buy the shirt. When I returned home, and for the decade that followed, I compensated the only way I knew how: by wearing the color. Even without the official emblem, it became a symbol of connection, a quiet way of saying, I’m still part of this.
But beyond the rituals, the passion, and the community, that year also sparked something else in me—something I overlooked. Being immersed in a place where sports were more than just entertainment, where they shaped identities and built lifelong connections, made me realize that this was much more than a hobby.
This is why, no matter where I am, you’ll always find me wearing the shirt. Because it is always, somehow game day. It is never just fabric. It is belonging. It’s home.
And when the game is on, I know exactly where I stand—shoulders to shoulders with my team, even from miles away.
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