There’s this recurring scene in my life that probably says everything you need to know about me. I’m sitting in my car — a perfectly modern piece of tech with enough screens to land a fighter jet — and instead of streaming the game in 4K like a normal 2025 human, I’m gripping the steering wheel while a man in a radio booth screams into my bloodstream about a 3-yard carry.
It’s a conscious choice. A preference. A habit I refuse to break.
People treat radio like a fossil. Like the second high-def TV came around, we were supposed to burn antennas and speak of AM only in museums. But here I am, very much alive and unashamed, listening to someone describe sports to me as if my eyes have been repossessed.
I could watch. But watching is too honest.
On TV, a six-yard slant looks like exactly what it is: my receiver jogging like he’s late for a dentist appointment. On radio? That same slant becomes a heroic act. The announcer is selling it like the fate of all humanity depends on those six yards. He’s shouting with the enthusiasm of a man who just witnessed fire for the first time.
Radio turns mid into mythical.
And the chaos? Better than any broadcast package ESPN can buy. Every big play call on radio sounds like this:
“HE’S TO THE 10! THE 5! BALL IS LOOSE! NO—HE PICKED IT UP—WAIT—THE OFFICIALS ARE… AND—WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK AFTER THIS MESSAGE FROM GEICO!”
In the time it takes for that guy to finish his sentence, I’ve aged 4 years and forgotten how to breathe. I’m sitting at a red light begging the universe to give me a sign — preferably a touchdown, but at bare minimum, clarity.
Screens show you exactly how stupid your team looks. Radio lets you pretend they’re gods.
I think that’s the real addiction. Delusion is a beautiful drug.
But it’s also the nostalgia. The good kind — not the marketing kind. I grew up with the windows down, the static crackling like popcorn, and announcers making traffic lights feel like two-minute drills. I wasn’t just going somewhere. I was riding shotgun with destiny.
Publix parking lot? 50-yard line. Drive-thru window? Goal line stand. The check engine light? Probably the backup quarterback.
Radio makes the world feel like a stadium built just for you.
And it fits life better. You can do things while you listen. Deliver someone’s tacos? Radio. Pretend to fold laundry but really just scroll memes? Radio. Avoid making eye contact with neighbors because socializing is a scam? Radio, baby.
You don’t have to give the game 100% of your attention. You can live your life and let the broadcast soundtrack the adventure. Even the navigation lady becomes part of the drama.
Recalculating = blown coverage.
But the funniest part? The judgment.
“Why don’t you just watch on your phone?” they ask. With this smug face like they invented Wi-Fi. Because not everything needs a highlight reel, Brenda. Sometimes a man wants to experience sports through a disembodied voice yelling hope directly into his soul.
And while we’re clearing this up: I’m 36, not 86. I don’t wear New Balance unironically (yet). I can’t fix a carburetor. I listen to sports radio because it’s cooler than TV. Yes, I said it. Cooler. Fight me.
There’s an intimacy to radio. Just you, a voice, and the heartbeat you keep losing track of because the game is clearly trying to kill you. That voice becomes your angel and devil, your hype man and therapist.
When your team scores while you’re driving? You feel like you helped. Like you beamed the touchdown energy straight from your stereo into the end zone.
It’s stupid. It’s irrational. It’s perfect.
Football on the radio is the most emotionally immersive sports experience we have. Not the most accurate. Not the clearest. But the most alive.
TV gives you the truth. Radio lets you believe the lie.
And sometimes believing your team is unstoppable is the only thing that gets you through the day — or at least through one more delivery run.
So yes, I still listen to sports on the radio. No, I don’t plan on stopping. It makes errands feel epic. It turns Saturdays into stories. It lets me live in a world where the impossible still might happen.
Eventually I’ll get home. I’ll turn on the TV. And reality will show up.
But until then? It’s me, the car stereo, and hope.
And honestly… that’s all I need.
