Basketball paid my bills for 20 years.

Running up and down the court with some of the best who will ever play the game: Kobe, LeBron, Curry.

I know the rush. The heartbreak. The stakes.

Let me be unapologetically clear: there’s nothing wrong with caring about sports, but there is something deeply wrong with caring more about it than your real life.

Last night’s NBA Finals reminded me of something I’ve been wrestling with for a while. My hometown Pacers didn’t pull through in Game 7, and as I watched the emotional rollercoaster sweep through Indianapolis, I realized something: I felt oddly calm.

Not indifferent, exactly, but detached.

This struck me because I’ve been in love with basketball for as long as I can remember. I spent nearly two decades officiating Division I men’s college basketball and four years working with our men’s Olympic team.

And yet, lately, I’ve been thinking about the energy we give to the games we watch and whether we ever stop to wonder what it’s costing us.

When I was a kid growing up in Indianapolis, I somehow became obsessed with Florida State football.

I remember how my whole week could hinge on a win or loss. I wore the colors. I talked trash. I knew the stats. It was magic. And I still get why people care that deeply.

But lately, I’ve noticed something that makes me pause.

During the Pacers’ recent playoff run, I saw people experience higher highs and deeper lows from a basketball game than from some of the most significant moments in their own lives.

And I’m not judging; I’ve done versions of this myself.

That’s what made me start asking: What gets our best energy?

This isn’t about blaming sports for anything. Sports are beautiful.

They bring people together, provide joy, offer escape, and even help us process emotions we don’t have words for. But when does healthy fandom become misplaced identity?

I don’t have all the answers.

What I do have is a growing awareness that our emotional investment should be more aligned with the parts of our lives that we can actually shape.

The relationships we’re in, the people we’re becoming, and the legacy we’re building.

But here’s what I learned about the cost the hard way: it wasn’t just emotional.

I missed weddings. I missed funerals.

People I loved gathered to celebrate beginnings and mourn endings.

I wasn’t there, not because I didn’t care, but because I had convinced myself that the next game was more important.

That my presence on the court was who I was. I was paid to run up and down hardwood floors with whistles and rules, but the truth is, I let that job referee my identity.

When I officiated games, my decisions mattered. My focus changed outcomes. But sitting in my living room, no matter how loud I cheer, I’m just a spectator.

And that’s okay. That’s part of the beauty, too.

Still, I wonder: if I know more about a player’s shooting percentage than my best friend’s recent struggles, or if I let a buzzer-beater ruin my mood more than my own failures to show up for the people I love, then maybe it’s time to recalibrate.

I’m not saying stop watching. I’m saying stay awake.

Enjoy the drama, the rivalries, the community.

Just don’t forget the game that never ends, the one where your presence, your attention, and your love actually change the outcome.

That’s the one that really matters when the final buzzer sounds.