It’s Great to Be a Miami Hurricane

When I arrived at the University of Miami as a freshman in the fall of 1997, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I thought I was going to college.
What actually happened was induction.

I didn’t grow up a Hurricanes fan. I didn’t arrive with inherited allegiances, laminated game tickets, or a carefully cultivated opinion about the glory years. I just showed up, wide-eyed, slightly overwhelmed, and accidentally wandered into a culture where football wasn’t entertainment. It was oxygen.

I cheered at every home game. Not casually. Not politely. I yelled until my voice cracked, until my throat burned, until the guy next to me felt comfortable hugging a stranger after a third-down stop. I learned when to stand, when to scream, and when to curse under my breath like it was a prayer. I learned that a Saturday could lift you up or ruin your entire weekend and that both outcomes were somehow acceptable.

Then I graduated. And here’s the part that surprised me.

I never stopped.

I followed them through the dominant years and the lean ones. Through seasons when hope arrived early and left by October. Through coaching changes, rebuilds, “this is the year” optimism, and “just wait until next year” resignation. I followed them when it would have been easier, and frankly more dignified, to move on.

They are the only team I follow. No casual rooting interests. No, “I kind of like them too.” Just the Hurricanes. Through thick and thin.

And here’s the embarrassing truth. I mock people like me.

Or at least I would, if I weren’t me.

I roll my eyes at grown adults whose moods are hijacked by teenagers playing sports. I find the pageantry ridiculous. The superstition is irrational. The emotional investment is deeply suspect.

Unless it’s the Hurricanes.

Then I am pacing the living room like a hostage negotiator. My anxiety spikes on third and long. I can’t sit. I can’t relax. I pretend I’m calm while muttering things that would concern a therapist. Wins feel euphoric. Losses linger longer than they should. I know this. I’m aware of it. I accept it anyway.

I miss the Orange Bowl in a way that feels unreasonably personal, like losing a childhood home. I miss the concrete, the noise, the way the place felt alive and slightly unhinged. But I’ve lost my voice multiple times in the past decade, screaming at Hard Rock Stadium, so I suppose grief can coexist with progress.

This thing has followed me into adulthood, into parenthood, into places I never expected.

My kids wear Miami gear without irony. They don’t question it. It’s just what you wear. My dog has a Miami collar, which is absurd and yet feels completely appropriate. And my wife, a Duke grad and fan through and through, has not only attended Hurricanes games willingly, but occasionally sports a Miami hat. This feels like love in its purest form.

Being a fan, a real fan, isn’t about wins. If it were, most of us would have quit a long time ago. It’s about belonging. It’s about shared language, shared suffering, shared joy. It’s about caring deeply about something that doesn't know you exist, and finding that strangely comforting.

Especially now.

In times of uncertainty, when the world feels unsteady and the future feels noisy, there is something grounding about ritual. About knowing when the kickoff is. About screaming at the same mistakes, celebrating the same small victories, and believing together even when belief feels foolish.

When you meet another Hurricanes fan, there’s a look. A slight nod. A quiet acknowledgment. They understand. They’ve been through it too. They’re one of us.

Last night, they beat Ole Miss in the Fiesta Bowl. I yelled. I scared my family. I felt that old, familiar surge of joy that makes no rational sense and yet feels completely earned.

Soon, they’ll be back home at Hard Rock Stadium, playing for a national championship. I’ll be in Colorado on a trip that was scheduled long before any of this felt possible. I’ll be screaming anyway. Loud. Unapologetic. Possibly alarming to strangers.

Because this isn’t casual.
It’s not logical.
It’s not something I chose.

But it’s who I am, and I love every second of it.