Death and football 🏈💀

What sports can teach us about ambition, greatness, and what it really means to play the game of Life.

Since the beginning of civilization, humans have gathered in arenas to witness spectacle, struggle, and the pursuit of glory. From the Colosseum in ancient Rome to the sacred ball courts of the Aztecs to the trading floors of Wall Street, we’re naturally drawn to competition and the stories of those who strive for greatness.

Why?

Because these moments mirror life: struggle is the most universal human experience, and to exist is to compete for survival. Whether on the battlefield, in the workplace, or on the playing field, we sacrifice and struggle not only to endure but to rise to the top—driven by our belief that through sheer effort, we might transcend the ordinary and touch something greater.

Tonight, over 100 million people will gather for our modern Colosseum: The Super Bowl (go Birds!). The flashing lights, multimillion-dollar ads, and halftime musical performance—it’s all part of the show. But beneath it, something far older, far more primal, is unfolding.

The athletes on the field aren’t just playing football. They are stepping into a tradition as old as civilization itself—a test of strength, skill, and endurance in pursuit of something greater: glory, success, meaning, and immortality through legacy.

And yet, history tells us that only the greatest will be remembered, and even they will eventually fade into obscurity. This is the paradox of competition, ambition, and life itself: we chase greatness, knowing that one day it might all be forgotten.

And still—we play.

Why we play

Humans are wired to seek “symbolic immortality,” in the words of Ernest Becker, and to strive to create a legacy that will live beyond us. It’s a way of coping with existential anxiety—the innate fear that arises when we confront the reality of death, and question whether the lives we lived truly meant anything.

So we push our bodies and minds to their limits. We chase wealth, power, and influence. We build careers, break records, etch our names in history. And beneath it all, whether we realize it or not, we are fighting against the one thing we cannot defeat: death. No matter how much we achieve, time remains our only undefeated opponent.

This is why we celebrate champions, immortalizing the few who rise above the rest. We convince ourselves that if we just work harder, sacrifice more, and win big enough, maybe—just maybe—we, like them, can outrun time and create a lasting legacy.

Football is the perfect example of this. Penn State historian Garrett Fagan argues that football is a direct descendant of the Roman Colosseum games. Both are violent spectacles. Both turn athletes into heroes. Both reward the strongest while discarding the broken.

The biggest difference? Most gladiators were forced to fight, whereas football players choose to walk on the field—but how much of that choice is an illusion? Many players come from lower-income backgrounds, where sports is their best—sometimes only—path to a better life. Much like the Roman gladiators (many of whom were prisoners, slaves, or desperate free men), athletes often risk their health, identity, and future for a shot at greatness. And in the end, the game moves on—while their bodies and minds often do not.

We may not fight with swords or shields anymore, but the same instincts are at play: the deep psychological need to prove ourselves, to be more than just another nameless face in the crowd.

Psychiatrist Alfred Adler, a contemporary of Freud, argued that the fundamental drive of human beings isn’t pleasure, as Freud claimed, but the will for significance that causes us to strive for superiority–rooted in the desire to overcome inferiority. We compete, not just for survival, but for validation—for proof that we are worthy. Whether in sports, business, or social status, our accomplishments serve as armor against the fear that we are small, insignificant, and forgettable.

Adler saw competition not as an innate human virtue, but as a reaction to this basic insecurity. When we feel encouraged and connected, we act with cooperation and purpose. But when we feel inferior, we tend to compensate, either by striving for dominance or by completely withdrawing.

Football, like any high-stakes competition, is a microcosm of this. Athletes push through broken bones and concussions, CEOs sacrifice their health and families, all in pursuit of a goal that is often more about self-worth than the prize itself. And in our own ways, we all play this game, chasing what we think will bring us significance—subscribers, status, etc—a promise that ‘success’ will finally make us enough.

We convince ourselves that if we just work harder, sacrifice more, and win big enough, maybe—just maybe—we can outrun time.

But no one outruns time.

What we trade for success

Nietzsche argued that greatness demands suffering, and to ‘become who you are,’ you must be willing to endure. Athletes embody this idea—they sacrifice their bodies in the pursuit of an ideal. They push through broken bones, concussions, and surgeries because they believe that suffering is the price of greatness.

Consider Tom Brady, whose relentless pursuit of self-mastery was legendary. His diet (known as the TB12 Method), his training, and his mindset were all built to conquer time itself.

"My goal is to play forever," Brady once said.

And for a while, it seemed like he might. He won seven Super Bowls, outlasted generations of quarterbacks, and redefined what longevity in sports could look like. But even the greatest can’t outrun time. Brady’s refusal to let go came at a price: his marriage ended, his family dynamic changed, and he abandoned his longtime team, leaving the Patriots after 20 seasons. He was still chasing something, even after reaching the top. And in the end, he learned what all greats eventually do—that the game always moves on without you.

This is the fundamental struggle of all high achievers: we want permanence in a world of impermanence. I know this feeling well. As an entrepreneur, the pursuit of building something great always feels urgent—like the next milestone will finally make it all mean something. But no matter how high I climb, the moment passes, and a new goal takes its place.

This is what Becker called the denial of death: the idea that all human ambition is, at its core, a way to distract ourselves from the reality of our own impermanence. We work, we strive, we build, we compete, we push past our limits—not just to win, but to prove, if only for a moment, that we were here and that we mattered.

Dostoyevsky saw things differently. He believed that meaning comes not from the prize, but the pursuit itself. He once speculated that Christopher Columbus must have felt his greatest joy not upon reaching the New World, but in the final days leading up to it. Because the journey is what keeps us moving forward, and once we arrive, the anticipation disappears.

And rarely does winning give us more than momentary satisfaction. We forget that the pursuit itself is what gives life meaning—not the prize. The moment we arrive, we realize the arrival wasn’t what we were searching for after all. We tell ourselves that fulfillment lies in the next promotion, the next championship, the next great achievement. But how often do we get there only to feel strangely empty?

As writer Rob Henderson put it: “The scariest thing about getting everything you want is realizing it doesn’t make you happy.”

This is what’s known as the “arrival fallacy”: the idea that happiness exists just beyond the next victory, only to disappear the moment we reach it.

This doesn’t just apply to athletes, of course. High achievers in every field—CEOs, artists, musicians, academics, politicians—burn themselves out chasing something they think will finally make them happy. But time and again, we see that reaching the top doesn’t lead to fulfillment.

What if we’re not meant to arrive? What if the struggle itself—the striving, the effort, the process—is the whole point?

We chase greatness as if it will last forever. Yet, everything we build—our careers, our reputations, our achievements—is fragile, slipping away the moment the next season begins. We want immortality, but all we get is a moment.

A different way to play

Every game ends. Every pursuit, no matter how glorious, eventually reaches its final chapter. This is true not just for athletes but for all of us. The CEO steps down. The artist finishes their last masterpiece. The teacher retires.

Jason Kelce, one of the most beloved players in Philadelphia Eagles history, recently faced this moment and decided to step away from the game. He could have played one more season and chased one more ring. But he chose something else: —his body, his family, a life beyond the game. Now, his team is back in the Super Bowl. This time, he’s watching from the stands. The taste of victory is so close, yet so far. He could have stayed. He could have been in this fight one more time. But he chose to honor his own journey instead—like Simone Biles, one of the greatest gymnasts of all time, who may be best remembered for her decision to step back from competing in the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. The decision cemented her legacy as not just a pro athlete, but a shining example of self-respect and courage.

I think there’s a lesson there for all of us.

Instead of chasing some future version of success, what if we focused on showing up fully in the life we have now? Because, in the end, legacy isn’t just what we accomplish—it’s how we play the game.

Our jobs, achievements, and status won’t last. But how we live, treat others, and embody our values will. Success isn’t just what you achieve–it’s about what you refuse to sacrifice along the way.

Maybe the point isn’t to be remembered. Maybe the point isn’t even to succeed. At the end of the day, the point is simply to play—to step into the arena of life, give it everything you’ve got, and embrace the struggle, knowing that one day it will end.

Happy Super Bowl Sunday,

– Maura

P.S.

If this piece resonated with you, consider joining us for Death Over Coffee, our private monthly salon where we gather to reflect on mortality—not as a downer, not as a lofty philosophical exercise, but as a practice for living more fully.

Together, we’ll share stories, explore the big questions, and connect with like-minded mortals who believe that contemplating death is the key to a more meaningful life.

Our next session is happening on Sunday, February 23, from 11 AM - 12 PM ET—but you’ll need to be a paid member to join. If you can’t make it this month, no worries—we host these every month as a special benefit for our members.

Stay tuned for an email to sign up. We hope to see you there. ☕️