Think of your favorite movie. It doesn't matter what it is. The Godfather. Jaws. Avengers: Endgame. The genre, era, director, and star are irrelevant. Just pick whatever movie now means the most to you.
Now, play the title song to that movie in your head. Hum it to yourself. If you're alone in quarantine and looking to give yourself a break, scream it at the top of your lungs.
Regardless of our beliefs on anything happening in the world, there's one thing that all of us conducting this little experiment had in common: we all immediately heard that title song in our head, we all immediately vocalized it internally note for note, and once we started playing the tune to ourselves, we all associated a great moment from that movie with it, replayed that, and had a moment.
Movies aren't great on their own. They need a great soundtrack. It's the rise and fall, the crescendo or the fade in sound that makes what's happening on the screen trigger our emotions.
Sports have their own soundtrack, as well. But it's not a symphonic arrangement that gives sports the full spectrum of emotion - it's something else.
It's the fans. It's the collection of people from all groups of life gathered in one place to witness athletic excellence in person.
And the notes of that arrangement aren't sharps and flats and minors and majors, though there are comparisons.
The sharps are the fans realizing the attacking side has a numbers advantage on a counter-attack, with a goalkeeper off of his line, the build up knowing that something remarkable is about to happen.
The flats are the moment the official's hand goes in the air, and you know your team just gave away a power play in the waning moments of a critical game.
The minors are the moment a long third down conversion into enemy territory is wiped out by a holding penalty deep in the fourth quarter.
The majors ... well, the majors are this:
Everything you need to know about the impact of fans on the mood of a sporting event is right there. As good as Uncle Verne is, and as impactful as that call was, everything you needed to have chills through your body started at 1:08.
That's the moment the fans realized they might see something special.
That's the moment they started with the "oohs," the whispered exclamations that perhaps an all-time great had just done something that would become a memory.
Then, at 1:17, just nine seconds later, the swell in the symphony of fans reaches what you think is the point of maximum emotion. Everyone, young, old, black, white, poor, rich, everyone is together, waiting for the moment the ball drops, and all of the emotion of a historic moment can be released into the universe, and the celebration of that shared experience can begin.
But then, at 1:19, just TWO SECONDS LATER, the emotion of the moment changes. And you can feel it, exacerbated by the crowd. The moment had been stolen. The music fades. Everyone, who just seconds before was ready to erupt in elation, feels the mood drift away, and the music changes to accompany that. The notes, that moments ago had been major chords building in tempo, are suddenly replaced by a quiet, monotonous minor chord evoking disappointment, perhaps even sadness that we had collectively had a Hall of Fame moment stolen from us.
And then, three seconds later, at 1:21, the symphony swells. The crescendo peaks with a full and thorough major chord that reverberates through the soul of every sports fan who was sucked into the moment, as if it was the only thing on earth that mattered at that moment. And the fans, they are the musicians, they are the instruments that send chills down the spine of every observer, the musicians themselves included. They are the conductor that signals to the audience that they have witnessed something, and are simultaneously involved in something, very, very special.
Now imagine that moment without fans. Imagine that moment without the "oohs," without the murmurs of disappointment when the ball doesn't fall, and without the eruption that takes place when it does.
Imagine that moment, without the sound of the fans.
It would be dead. It would be hollow. It would still be a great shot, from the greatest golfer of all time at the sports' most prestigous tournament played on the world's most recognizable course.
But without the shouting, without the noise, it wouldn't be the same moment.
And despite the emotion, the feel of that - I am actually excited to see sports without fans.
That might sound counter to the scenario I just played out. I know that it does. And, for the record, I am NOT arguing that I don't want fans to return to sports.
But if we're going to be forced to watch sports without fans in attendance, I'm going to look for every bit of silver lining that I can find - and one of them stands out to me.
At its core, sports is about competition. Sports is about the athletes participating and their drive and desire to be the best at whatever it is they're trying to accomplish.
Sports is, at its most important, about winners and losers and how they play the game.
Anyone who has ever seen Trevor Lawrence throw a touchdown or Zion Williamson push an alley-oop through the cylinder or seen Sebastian Aho find the net with a long range slap shots knows that the reaction of the fans can change the game. The emotion, the moment can drive a team towards success or pull them towards failure mentally.
But what if that weren't there? What if the fan response to a big time dunk or a sniper's goal from distance wasn't available? What if there were no fireworks after a touchdown? Then what?
Then, it comes down to one thing: which team, which athlete, is the best?
And isn't that, boiled down to its very essentials, exactly what sports is about?
I don't want to see which quarterback performs best when they have the home or away crowd in their favor. I want to see if Tom Brady is better than Drew Brees or not.
I don't want to see which team rides emotion from a hyped up entrance with a laser show deeper into the game. I want to see if Giannis can take the torch from LeBron.
I don't want to see which side can play to or tune out the beat of the drums of the opposition. I want to see if Toronto FC can pry the Cup from Atlanta United on a level field.
Without fans, sports will be raw. They will be nothing more than the game at its finest.
Sports will be the same way they are for thousands of men who play pickup ball at the Y during the week. There's no cheering, there's no hype for a three.
Bob knocked down a shot. Chuck yells at Bob to get back on defense. The next play begins.
Bob and Chuck know what the game is like at its base element. They know the game without elation. They know the game when all you're playing for is points and pride and nothing else.
And now, without fans, so will Tiger. And so will Zion. And so will Mike. And Serena and Lionel and Simone and all the rest.
They're going to go back to basics, back to the way it was in little league, when the only thing that mattered was doing the best you could do and seeing if you were better than the other guy when there were no homefield advantages to be had.
And we, who all know that feeling, will be able to understand what they're going through.
The games will be raw. They will be quiet. And we'll get to see the best athletes in the world having to go through their own mental processes to dive deep and figure out ... how do you win the game, when there's no one there to encourage you to win it? What comes out when there's no pomp and circumstance, there is only the competition and the result?
I don't want it to last forever. Hell, I don't want to find out what it's like at all, if we're being honest.
But if we have to, if we're going to be forced to see an NBA without fans, an NHL with empty stands, an NFL stadium devoid of noise, a college football environment that isn't ... then at least we'll get to see what the best in the world look like when the only thing around them is the game.
