Sometimes I wonder why I love college football. I have an average—possibly below-average—understanding of the game. I can’t explain offensive formations or defensive coverages, yet every August the childlike excitement returns.

As they say, football is a religion here in the South. Growing up, my household’s chosen denomination was the University of Georgia. I remember weekends at my parents’ friends’ houses for tailgate parties, everyone decked out in red and black. One of my Mom’s sweet friends cries when Georgia loses and just as much when they win. For three Halloween’s in a row, I was a UGA cheerleader despite any inclination to actually cheer lead. I even have pictures of my brother and I on North Campus (I in high school, he in middle school) where we would later cross paths as students. Loving Georgia football was simply a generational torch to bear. There wasn’t much choice in the matter.

Still, why do we love college football?

Why do we plan weddings around team schedules, name our dogs and first born children after players, and ultimately define ourselves by our team allegiance? At the end of the day, football doesn’t matter. But as Pope John Paul II is attributed (likely falsely) to saying, “Of all the unimportant things, football is the most important.”

He was referring to the other football, my beloved soccer, but the point remains: while college football has no bearing on our lives, it is incredibly valuable to our human experience.

As humans, we crave stories and, even more so, we need to find ourselves in a story.

Football has every story trope under the sun. Underdogs. Comebacks. Good vs. evil. Davids vs. Goliaths. Enemies to lovers. One bed in the inn. Okay, maybe not that last one.

As fans, we participate in these stories as they unfold. We see ourselves in the hail mary touchdowns and the field goal misses. We may not suit up in pads but we contribute to the narrative with our presence and engagement every play. What is a football game without a crowd anyways? Practice, I guess.

We go on to document these stories, analyze them, embellish them, and eventually share the best with the next generation. The game-winning plays we revisit every season remind us of what’s possible. The losses we never forget dig chips on our shoulders and generational grudges (My friends and I still talk about the time we stood for all 4 quarters in downpour rain during the 2016 game against Bama. I’m hoping for redemption between the hedges in two Saturdays. It will also be my 30th birthday, so no pressure).

As we retell these stories, we develop a shared sense of community. We align ourselves as one even if we couldn’t be more different in reality.

Today, there are few shared spaces left where humans gather—fewer still where we gather united in a singular, positive spirit. We’re divided by politics, religion, schedules, and so much more. Yet football represents an opportunity for connection across these divisions. It’s by no means perfect and has a long way to go in terms of diversity, equality, and opportunity, but it’s an avenue for community I hope we continue to build.

And also, football is just fun. We could all use more fun.

When asked about incentivizing fan turnout, Coach Kirby Smart disagreed that there was any need: “If our fans want to be great and different, then they’ll do it.” That’s a bold take and I know the marketing team at UGA Athletics shook their heads.

Yes, there are many factors that go into fans showing up to the stadium and being loud all four quarters; ticket prices, parking, general accessibility, to name a few.

Maybe football means nothing to you, and that’s okay. I just hope you find your story—and people who are as passionate about it as you are—so you can imagine what’s possible together. We all deserve an epic story to pass down, even if we were only observers.

Anyways, go Dawgs.