In any sporting event, there are six possible outcomes:
Your team wins a blowout. (See: Duke v. Princeton, 2007)
Your team wins a close game. (See: Duke v. Davidson, 2007)
Your team wins a game so close and thrilling that it is (or should be) replayed on ESPN Classic. (See: Duke v. Kentucky, Elite Eight, 1992)
Your team loses a game so close and thrilling that it is (or should be) replayed on ESPN Classic. (See: Duke v. UNC, "Jeff Capel's Buzzer Beater," 1995)
You team loses a close game. (See: Duke v. Pitt, 2007)
Your team loses a blowout. (See: Duke Football, Ted Roof Era) (Sorry, I had to do it.)
That may not cover everything, but it's close enough. It has the obvious failing that it doesn't take into account the quality of your team or your team's opponent, but you've got to over-simplify somewhere.
Pretty much any sports fan would tell you that they'd be most happy to see their team win an ESPN Classic-worthy contest, followed by a close game, followed by a blowout, followed by a loss in a classic, with either the close loss or the blowout loss coming in last.
Everyone I've asked agrees-a win is always better than a loss.
But I disagree.
I'd rather see my team lose an all-time, ESPN Classic-worthy game than win in a blowout or win in a close game. And I think that's the right way to feel.
The high priests of the Krzyzewskian Orthodox Church (home base: somewhere in the swamps of K-Ville) are probably ready to excommunicate me right now: There are times that you'd rather see Duke Basketball lose than win? How dare you?
But before you call me a traitor to the cause and start questioning my fanhood, just hear me out.
If Duke won the national men's basketball championship this year, you'd be really happy. In fact, your happiness at the moment of victory-as you circle around the celebratory bonfire-might (depending on the depth of your love for Duke Basketball) exceed any happiness you've ever felt. Some might say that's kind of pathetic, but I'm not here to judge.
How long is that profound happiness going to last? If I told you that three hours later you'll find out that you got a D on your calc exam, would you shrug it off because Duke won the National Championship three hours before? You'll look back on the win and be pleased, but life will go on.
And if Duke loses in the NCAA Tournament this year, or loses to UNC on Senior Night, you'll be pretty unhappy. Maybe, if you're like one of my good friends after the first-round loss to VCU last year, you won't eat dinner on the cruise ship that night and we'll seriously fear that you might throw yourself overboard. But ultimately, you won't throw yourself overboard, and when you hit the breakfast buffet the next morning, you'll be legitimately pumped that the Omelet Man is offering smoked salmon as an omelet-filling option.
Here's the point: The feelings of happiness you get from your team's winning and the feelings of sadness you get from your team's losing-even in the biggest and most important games-are fleeting. Your team's won-loss record is ultimately extraordinarily unimportant.
So if, (to refute Vince Lombardi) winning isn't the only thing, then what's left? If I don't watch Duke Basketball because their winning will make me profoundly happy, then why do I care at all?
Here's why: It's the chance to see something extraordinary, something that I can look back on in 15 years or 15 hours and say, "Yep, that was my team, and I was sitting with my dad/friend/brother/a stranger at a bar for that one" or, better yet, "Yep, I was there, and it was wild."
On some level, most people intuitively understand this line of thinking. It's the reason why most people would prefer their team to win in an instant-classic nail-biter than in a blowout-even though the blowout win causes less anxiety while the game is actually going on.
But no one is willing to take the final extra step and say that what they really want is for their team to play in a classic-and that winning is secondary.
So what does this really mean? It means that ultimately, we care more about getting something done than the act of doing it. We'd rather put the run on the scoreboard than watch the 450-foot home run clear the fence; we'd rather see the A on our transcript than take the course; we'd rather see a banner in the rafters than watch a team earn it (or fail trying).
The obvious thing to do here would be to make the trite observation that sometimes the journey is more important than the destination. And to some extent, that's probably true-otherwise, it wouldn't be a cliché. It is important to have experiences that are fun to recall in the long-run, even at the expense of some short-term happiness.
Like maybe you want to take that hard class even though you'll probably get a C+ in it and then totally never get into med school (which I guess is easy for someone who's already in med school to say).
Or maybe, when Duke's playing UNC in the Final Four this year and you're watching on TV in Cameron Indoor Stadium, and Duke's winning by three with 10 seconds left and Carolina's Wayne Ellington launches a three-pointer to tie-maybe you'll hope a little bit that it goes in.
Because maybe one overtime will turn into two or three overtimes and Gerald Henderson will throw down an alley-oop dunk as the clock expires and Duke will win by one as everyone around you goes wild. Or maybe Duke will lose. Either way, you'll always remember where you were and what you felt when it happened.
And isn't that the best gift sports-or any experience-can give?
Alex Fanaroff is a first-year medical student, former co-editor of Towerview and former conductor of the notorious Train.
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