It has been a few days since I last sat down to write, and the radio silence on my blog wasn’t exactly planned. Usually, when I step away for a bit, it’s because the markets are doing something crazy or I’m knee-deep in charts, but this time, it had absolutely nothing to do with crypto values. It was just… life.
We all have those moments where the sheer volume of tasks meets a sudden dip in motivation. It wasn’t burnout, exactly, but just a heavy sense of busyness combined with a mental "low battery" signal. But, as it often does, the weekend provided a chance to reset, watch some sports, and do a lot of thinking about the concept of pressure—both the kind we put on ourselves and the kind the world heaps upon us.
My weekend was bookended by my two sons and their football matches. It’s fascinating to watch them because, despite playing the same sport, they are operating in two completely different universes.
On Saturday, in the early evening, it was time for my eldest. The atmosphere there has shifted significantly over the last year. You don’t see many parents on the sidelines anymore; the innocence of "playing for fun" has been replaced by the grit of young adults trying to get noticed. The goal now is to stand out enough to get selected for one of the top two senior teams.
He played a solid game. He did his job well. But as a father watching from the side, it is becoming increasingly clear that the math just doesn’t add up in this club. There was a specific situation this weekend that really highlighted the frustration. The senior team needed one central midfielder to move up. Logic dictates you take the strongest performer, right? Yet, bizarrely, they chose the weakest of the three available options.
Normally, this is the part where the frustration sets in—that gnawing feeling of unfairness that is demotivating for him and irritating for me. But this weekend, I managed to flip the script in my head. I looked at the outcome for the boy who was picked. He had to rush, probably halfway through our game or immediately after, drive to the other venue, arrive frantically, and sit there, cooling down, only to spend 90 minutes on the bench for the first team.
When you look at it through that lens, my son was the lucky one. He got to play a full match, keep his rhythm, and avoid the "bench trap." I found a strange sense of peace in that realization. The politics of selection are completely out of our control, so worrying about them is a waste of energy. We know the season is ending soon, and the inevitable "talk" about next year is coming this month. It will be up to him to make a choice: stay and deal with the logic-defying choices, or go somewhere fresh. For now, I’m just glad I could let the anger go.
Sunday brought a totally different vibe with my youngest at 11:30 AM. He isn’t a natural-born footballer like his brother, but he loves the game. The rules at his level are a blessing: everyone plays at least half the match. My challenge with him is psychological. I watch him play, and I can see the potential there—he can play football—but he is held back by a hesitation, a sort of fear of making a mistake. I’m currently strategizing on how to help him unlock that confidence, to convince him that if he just lets go of the fear, the feet will follow.
Thinking about my sons and their different battles with confidence naturally led my mind to the massive sporting events we witnessed this weekend: the Winter Olympics and the Super Bowl.
It is easy to sit on the couch with a beer and critique, but when you stop to consider the crushing weight on these athletes, it is terrifying. Whether it is the Super Bowl, which might be a once-in-a-lifetime shot, or the Olympics, representing four years of grueling isolation and training, the stakes are suffocating.
I have to take my hat off to Jutta Leerdam. What she achieved is nothing short of spectacular. She chose a very lonely, unconventional path. She stepped away from the traditional team structures, mapped out her own route, and largely ignored the noise. She also limited her press contact, which paradoxically increases the pressure because when you do show up, everyone is watching to see if your "arrogance" in going solo was justified.
Imagine the scene: You are standing there, preparing to skate. You watch one of your biggest rivals smash an Olympic Record. You have maybe five minutes to process that information. Five minutes to let it sink in that "perfect" isn't good enough anymore; you have to be historical. Then the gun goes off.
That is the difference between the elite and the rest. Some athletes see that and crumble. Others, like Leerdam, absorb the energy and use it to drive the race of their lives.
Then there was the Super Bowl. I had a specific focus on the New England Patriots and their quarterback, Drake Maye. I remember watching his interview right before kickoff. There was a grin on his face—a look that teetered right on the edge of confidence and arrogance.
But as the game progressed, that grin faded. Nothing worked. It wasn’t just his errors; the entire offense seemed to collapse around him. It brought up that age-old sports question: Was the Patriots' offense terrible, or was the opposing defense just that good? Usually, the truth lies somewhere in the middle. But seeing a young player realize that his preparation wasn't enough is painful to watch. The pressure that fueled Leerdam seemed to crush the Patriots' offense.
For the first time, I decided to upgrade our viewing experience. I bought a mini-subscription to the NFL Game Pass. I wanted the full American experience—HDR picture quality and, crucially, the original US commercials.
I have to say, the commercials were a mixed bag. There were a few beauties—I particularly enjoyed the Pepsi ad that hired the Coca-Cola polar bears (a classic jab)—but overall, I feel like the golden age of Super Bowl ads might be behind us. They were entertaining, but perhaps not legendary.
We kept our tradition alive with plenty of homemade snacks and drinks. However, the time difference is always the killer for us in Europe. We made it to the halftime show—which was okay, though I’ve definitely seen better—and then called it a night around 3:00 AM. We watched the second half the next day.
The first half was actually a bit of a letdown if you like explosive plays; the defenses were clearly the bosses on the field. But by the time we finished watching the recording on Monday, it was clear that the right team won. They deserved it.
After all the high-stakes drama of professional sports and the emotional rollercoaster of youth football, I ended my weekend with something incredibly grounding.
I went out into the garden and spread lime on the lawn.
It’s the most boring, slow-motion activity imaginable compared to the Super Bowl. You spread the white powder, and then... you do nothing. You wait. I can't take any further action for a few weeks until the soil chemistry adjusts. There is a lesson in there somewhere. After the rush of the weekend, sometimes the best thing to do is just do the work, step back, and let nature take its course.
Now, I’m ready to get back to the daily grind. The motivation dip is gone, and the lawn is fed. Let’s see what this week brings.
Cheers,
Peter
