“Sports are the only entertainment where, no matter how many times you go back, you never know the ending.”
Neil Simon
Roger Bennett once called sports “the most important unimportant thing in life,” and the more I think about it, the more I realize how spot-on that is. On paper, it makes no sense—grown adults dedicating entire afternoons to yelling passionately at strangers in matching outfits. And yet, here we are. Entire cities brought to collective ecstasy (or existential dread), continents pausing for crucial penalty kicks, people literally painting their bodies in team colors—as if this somehow helps.
My favorite athletes aren’t just players; they’re weekend visitors who reliably swing by my living room to fill my life with a strangely compelling mix of joy, heartbreak, and the occasional embarrassing victory dance. They are why we watch, argue, and, when no one’s around, quietly whisper heartfelt strategy advice directly into the TV. Because deep down, we all want to believe that caring this much about something so beautifully trivial actually matters—and who’s to say it doesn’t?
Andre Agassi
Growing up playing tennis meant that weekends often involved my dad and me glued to the TV, watching legends like Boris Becker, Steffi Graf, Stefan Edberg, Monica Seles, Pete Sampras, Gabriela Sabatini, and Ivan Lendl. Each had their own distinctive flair, their own way of making tennis look impossibly cool—but none captivated me quite like Andre Agassi.
Agassi wasn’t merely a tennis player; he was a cultural phenomenon, a living, breathing neon billboard daring you not to notice him. With that unmistakable mullet, acid-wash shorts, and fluorescent headbands, Agassi single-handedly made tennis feel like rock ‘n’ roll. I mean, let’s face it: when your on-court style could double as an outfit from a Bon Jovi video, you’re definitely doing something right.
But beneath all that neon and swagger, Agassi was more than just a charismatic rebel. Sure, the hair and clothes got your attention, but his talent and fierce competitive spirit kept it. Watching him play was like witnessing controlled chaos—electric, unpredictable, and undeniably thrilling. His groundstrokes weren’t just impressive; they felt personal, like every ball carried his entire rebellious personality with it.
Yet what truly resonated with me wasn’t just Agassi’s flashy image—it was his authenticity, his evolution from tennis’s rebellious teenager into a thoughtful, relentless competitor who openly struggled, failed, and ultimately triumphed. He started out playing tennis like it was an act of teenage rebellion and ended up treating it like an act of love, and watching that journey unfold made him relatable in a way few athletes ever manage.
Andre Agassi wasn’t just another player I cheered for; he was the one who reminded me that sports at their best aren’t just about scores or titles—they’re about growth, passion…and occasionally making questionable fashion choices that somehow become iconic.
And for that alone, he’ll always hold a special spot in my sports-loving heart.
Andre Dawson
When I think of Andre Dawson, I don’t just picture a baseball player; I remember an entire summer defined by fandom, dedication, and a slightly questionable use of blank VHS tapes.
Back then, like so many kids of my generation, my summer days revolved around WGN and the Chicago Cubs. And Dawson wasn’t just part of the lineup—he was the reason I tuned in. With his quiet intensity, effortless power, and a swing that seemed designed specifically to launch baseballs into orbit, Dawson wasn’t just exciting to watch; he felt larger-than-life, even on our fuzzy, barely-in-color TV.
But fandom, for me, didn’t stop at admiration. In a fit of peak devotion—or mild insanity—I decided it was essential that I document history: recording every single Andre Dawson at-bat that summer onto VHS tapes. Every. Single. One. While other kids were outside, developing social skills or maybe a decent tan, I was hunched over the record button, curating my very own Dawson archive.
Looking back, my method might have been questionable (and my parents’ reaction even more so), but that summer perfectly encapsulated what Dawson meant to me. He wasn’t just my favorite player—he was an obsession, a legend in real-time, a man whose every move felt worth preserving. He taught me about consistency, grace under pressure, and the unmatched joy of watching someone master their craft.
I’m not sure where those tapes are now—probably stacked in an attic or holding up an uneven table leg somewhere—but I don’t regret a second of that strange, wonderful summer. Andre Dawson didn’t just make baseball feel special; he made a single kid in front of a grainy TV feel part of something unforgettable.
Bo Jackson
If superheroes walked among us, they’d probably look a lot like Bo Jackson. While most athletes spent their careers mastering just one sport, Bo casually decided two was better—because apparently, being phenomenal at just baseball or just football wasn’t quite challenging enough.
Bo Jackson wasn’t just impressive; he was impossible. Watching him felt like observing a glitch in reality, someone who didn’t play by the same laws of physics as everyone else. Whether he was effortlessly scaling outfield walls, snapping baseball bats like they were toothpicks, or flattening linebackers who outweighed him, every play felt like a video game cheat code activated in real life.
What I loved most about Bo wasn’t just his jaw-dropping athleticism—it was the joy he brought to sports. He wasn’t content to simply outperform his peers; he had to do it in a way that left your jaw hanging open and your friends convinced they’d just witnessed something borderline supernatural. When Nike told us “Bo Knows,” they weren’t exaggerating; Bo seemed to know everything—except maybe how to be ordinary.
He was the athlete every kid wanted to be in backyard pick-up games, the one whose posters decorated bedrooms across America—including mine, proudly displayed next to superheroes and rock stars, because that’s exactly the kind of company Bo Jackson belonged in.
Looking back, Bo Jackson didn’t just redefine my expectations of athletes—he completely shattered them. He reminded me (and everyone else watching) that sometimes greatness isn’t subtle; it’s loud, it’s thrilling, and it refuses to be confined to just one field.
Dante Hall
Watching Dante Hall return kicks felt less like watching football and more like witnessing a frantic squirrel navigate rush-hour traffic—equal parts exhilarating, terrifying, and oddly inspiring. Each time he caught the ball, it seemed utterly improbable that he’d escape unscathed, yet somehow he always did, leaving bewildered defenders behind, presumably questioning their own career choices.
Then… there was the helmet.
Dante’s helmet was something my wife and I both found endlessly amusing, though no one else ever seemed to mention it. It was perpetually two sizes too big, wobbling precariously atop his undersized frame. It lent an air of comedic absurdity to every breathtaking return, as if a neighborhood kid had wandered onto the field in borrowed gear, and the adults—embarrassingly—still couldn’t tackle him.
Dante and I actually shared a science lab at Texas A&M, though I’m pretty sure I was significantly more aware of this fact than he was. He certainly didn’t need my assistance in chemistry—but if his NFL dreams had somehow hinged on mid-90s web design tips or troubleshooting dial-up modems, I’d have been indispensable. Still, this minor overlap gave me a convenient excuse to root shamelessly, yelling at the TV with the comfortable delusion that our brief lab partnership granted me some kind of honorary involvement in his career.
Every time he lined up to return a kick, oversized helmet rattling loosely, I’d lean in just a bit closer to the screen. Because with Dante, I always felt something improbable, chaotic, and utterly joyful was about to unfold—the kind of moment that makes sports feel like the most joyful kind of nonsense. The kind of thing you share quietly with the person next to you, smiling in wonder at how beautifully silly and wonderfully human it all is.
David Beckham
I’ve always liked David Beckham—long before he stepped onto the pitch for my beloved LA Galaxy. By the time he arrived in Los Angeles, Beckham was already a superstar, his global celebrity so vast it often overshadowed just how genuinely talented he was as an athlete. But as a Galaxy fan, his arrival wasn’t just a high-profile transfer—it felt like validation, a sign that soccer in America had finally arrived.
What I admired most about Beckham during his Galaxy years wasn’t his fame or his perfectly coiffed hair (though, admittedly, impressive)—it was his quiet professionalism. Amidst the frenzy of paparazzi and fashion shoots, Beckham remained, at heart, a fiercely dedicated player. Sure, the headlines were more often about his style than his crosses, but anyone who watched him closely saw a player whose free kicks defied physics, whose vision on the field transformed the Galaxy into something special.
It wasn’t always smooth, of course—there were injuries, criticisms, and a fanbase occasionally impatient with the hype—but Beckham handled it all with a kind of graceful stubbornness. He reminded me, and the world, that beneath the stardom was a player who deeply loved the game, whose commitment on the field was far greater than his celebrity off it.
In many ways, Beckham’s Galaxy stint defined what it meant to carry immense expectations while still quietly excelling. He wasn’t just a soccer player; he was a symbol, proof that greatness could survive and thrive even under the brightest, most distracting spotlight. And for a Galaxy fan like me, seeing Beckham in our colors was a joy—a bit surreal, yes, but also deeply satisfying, like finally sharing your favorite indie band with the whole world and watching them shine brighter than ever.
Dirk Nowitzki
Dirk Nowitzki wasn’t just a basketball player—he was a seven-foot-tall paradox who somehow transformed awkwardness into elegance. Watching Dirk play basketball was like seeing a giraffe gracefully execute ballet—completely improbable yet mesmerizingly effective.
His trademark one-legged fadeaway was the sort of shot that physics textbooks would reject as impossible, yet Dirk sank them with such regularity you’d swear he had his own private laws of gravity. Even today, every time I toss a crumpled piece of paper into a trash can, I still instinctively shout “Diiiiirk,” hoping to channel just a fraction of his seemingly effortless magic.
And while everyone was scratching their heads trying to figure out how a lanky guy from Germany could dominate the NBA, Dirk was just out there—quietly draining threes, schooling defenders, and somehow managing to make post-game interviews endearing.
While the rest of the league puzzled over how exactly a lanky German was dominating American basketball, Dirk quietly went about his business—draining impossible threes, embarrassing defenders, and somehow managing to turn his charmingly awkward post-game interviews into appointment television.
He was never flashy. Dirk wasn’t chasing highlight reels or dunk contests; his game was about consistency and relentless improvement, until one day everyone realized he wasn’t just great—he was unstoppable. Watching Dirk methodically back down a defender or launch his impossibly high-arcing jumper was witnessing basketball at its most poetic.
This was Dallas, mind you—a place where consistent winning seasons used to feel more like an urban legend than reality. Dirk didn’t merely put the Mavericks on the map; he became the map, guiding a once-irrelevant franchise, step-by-step, to greatness through sheer will, precision, and a good dose of German efficiency.
Yet what made Dirk truly extraordinary wasn’t just his skill on the court—it was how he carried himself. There was no ego, no craving for fame or acclaim. Dirk approached every game, whether a Tuesday night in February or Game 7 of the NBA Finals, with the same joy, humility, and laser-focused determination. When Dirk finally lifted the championship trophy in 2011, it felt like the entire basketball universe exhaled, grateful to see someone who approached the game with quiet integrity and relentless perseverance finally rewarded.
Dirk was easy to love, not just for his MVP-caliber play but for his authentic, slightly goofy personality that reminded us all of the joy sports could bring. Even now, years after he hung up his sneakers, there’s still a Dirk-shaped hole in basketball—and in my heart—that no other player quite fills. Because athletes like Dirk don’t come around often, and when they do, they leave you grateful, nostalgic, and just a little worried that your best days as a sports fan might have retired with them.
DaMarcus Beasley
I still vividly remember the first time I saw DaMarcus Beasley play. It was one of those perfect, unexpected moments of sports fandom—the kind where you sit up straight, turn to whoever’s next to you, and say something intelligent like, “Who is that?”
Beasley burst onto the scene like a human sparkler, darting across the pitch with a grin wide enough to convince you he’d just learned soccer was a paid profession. He wasn’t just fast; he moved with the joyful abandon of a kid who’d escaped recess and somehow wandered onto an international field unnoticed. As he ran circles around bewildered defenders, I found myself smiling along, caught up in his palpable joy, suddenly rooting for a player I’d known for exactly three minutes.
From that moment, I followed Beasley everywhere—not literally, of course, though my wife would probably argue otherwise. We watched him fly down the left wing, first as a wide-eyed teen making defenders twice his size look silly, then as a veteran reinventing himself in whatever position his team needed, always smiling, always playing as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
Beasley somehow stretched his career across two decades, a timeframe that makes my knees hurt just thinking about it. He played in four World Cups, a number that suggests a gentle misunderstanding about how time works. How did he manage it? I’d guess it was that relentless, joyful enthusiasm—the simple inability to imagine a life not spent chasing a ball.
Now that he’s retired, the game feels different—slightly less joyful, slightly less childlike. Sometimes I watch a match and catch myself scanning the pitch, half-hoping to see a skinny blur racing down the sideline, oversized jersey billowing in the wind, grinning as if the entire thing is a glorious, improbable joke.
And maybe that’s exactly why I miss him so much. DaMarcus Beasley never just played soccer—he celebrated it. He reminded me that sports aren’t about statistics or even victories, really; they’re about the brief, beautiful moments of happiness we share with the people who make us feel lucky just to be watching.
Landon Donovan
If there’s one athlete who holds a permanent, reserved seat in my heart, it’s Landon Donovan. He’s not just my favorite soccer player—he’s my all-time favorite athlete, period. I’ve followed him from the beginning, when he was just a scrappy teenager with potential practically spilling out of his oversized jersey, through every exhilarating high and painful low, right up to his eventual retirement (and brief un-retirement—and then retirement again).
He wasn’t perfect—there were stumbles, tough decisions, and plenty of games that didn’t go his way. But honestly, that’s precisely why I loved him. He didn’t have to be flawless to be my favorite. Rooting for Landon felt less like typical fandom and more like cheering on a friend—one who wasn’t aware we were friends, admittedly, but that never bothered me.
Take the 2002 World Cup, when he scored that iconic goal against Mexico in the Round of 16. It was three in the morning, and Shelley and I had dragged a couple of friends out of bed—people who really deserved better friends than us.
There we sat, bleary-eyed, gripping mugs of coffee strong enough to dissolve teeth, hoping something (anything!) might justify the lost sleep. Then Donovan happened, taking a cross and coolly burying it into the net. Suddenly, we weren’t just watching soccer—we were participating in it, yelling loud enough to terrify the neighbors. Donovan sprinted toward the corner flag, arms wide, as if to say, “I’m sorry, did someone count us out?”
Ah… those were the days.
Of course, any conversation about Landon Donovan eventually arrives at the moment—the goal against Algeria in 2010. That goal doesn’t merely live rent-free in my head; it built a throne, invited friends, and now regularly hosts parades in its own honor.
It wasn’t just a game-winner; it was a spine-tingling explosion of pure, unfiltered joy that somehow united an entire country. I’ve never screamed louder or jumped higher in my life, and judging by the videos of celebrations across America, I clearly wasn’t alone.
For those brief seconds, hope became reality, and everyone in the room (and across the country) completely lost their collective minds.
But Donovan wasn’t just a national hero. With the LA Galaxy, he was more than a star—he was a comforting constant. He performed as if ice water ran through his veins, achieving feats of calm brilliance precisely when panic would have been justified. His World Cup heroics may have earned him global respect, but in LA, he became the reliable, steady heartbeat of American soccer.
Then, as if my sports universe decided to grant a personal wish, Landon turned up at my beloved Everton.
What were the odds?
He wasn’t merely a player on loan; he fit the team so perfectly you’d think he’d grown up in Liverpool, spending weekends eating fish and chips and casually humming Beatles tunes. Watching him in Everton blue felt like seeing my favorite book character step off the page and casually stroll into my neighborhood coffee shop.
What made Landon Donovan truly remarkable (to me, at least), wasn’t just his soccer. It was his willingness to be complicated, openly discussing his mental health, stepping away from the spotlight when he needed to, and choosing family and self-care over the expectations of fans and critics. Plenty criticized him for not fully committing to Europe, claiming he “underachieved” by staying stateside. For me, though, that choice only made him more admirable. He wasn’t playing by anyone else’s rules—just his own.
And that’s precisely why Landon Donovan remains so special to me. He wasn’t defined solely by goals, trophies, or highlight reels (though he had plenty). Instead, he was defined by honesty, heart, and the courage to live authentically, even under intense scrutiny.
His playing days may be behind him, but Landon Donovan’s impact remains. He’s still my favorite—not just for the athlete he was, but for the complicated, genuinely human person he chose to be.
And somehow, it still feels as though he’s out there, playing for my team.
Lewis Hamilton
My preoccupation with Lewis Hamilton is a more recent development, courtesy of my late-in-life discovery of F1 racing. But once I started watching, it was game over—I was hooked. I don’t know how it happened, but one minute I was vaguely aware of cars zipping around tracks in distant countries, and the next minute I was setting alarms for early Saturday mornings to catch qualifying rounds.
Lewis isn’t just a driver—he’s a symphony in motion, weaving through chicanes like it’s his own personal ballet. Watching him navigate a race at 200 miles per hour with the kind of calm most people reserve for picking out a cereal is nothing short of mesmerizing. He has this way of making extraordinary speed look effortless. The kind of focus it takes to not only keep control of the car but to outthink every other driver on the track while going full throttle? It’s beyond me. And with 7 (and let’s be real, it should be 8) world championships under his belt, Hamilton has more than earned his place as a racing legend.
But what really strikes me about Lewis is that it’s not just about the racing for him. Sure, he’s a master behind the wheel—probably the greatest we’ve ever seen—but he’s also a trailblazer for people of color in a sport that, to put it mildly, wasn’t exactly designed with diversity in mind.
He’s the first Black driver in F1 history, and he carries that role with a grace that makes it look easy, even though you know it’s anything but. In a sport dominated by tradition, privilege, and a fair share of snobbery, Lewis doesn’t just race—he challenges the very fabric of what F1 thinks it’s supposed to be.
And off the track, he’s just as impressive. He’s not content to sit on his laurels and count his championships. No, Lewis uses his platform to advocate for issues that matter—social justice, the environment, equality. He’s out there, speaking up when it’s easier to stay quiet, standing tall when it would be simpler to blend in. And the best part? He does it with this quiet, unflappable confidence, a kind of effortless swagger that makes you root for him even harder.
Watching Hamilton isn’t just about watching races anymore. It’s about witnessing someone who refuses to settle, who pushes not just the limits of his sport but the boundaries of what athletes can be. And as much as I love seeing him dominate on the track, it’s knowing that he’s out there fighting for something bigger than racing that’s made me a lifelong fan.
Lewis is the whole package, and I’m not just on the bandwagon—I’ve reserved a permanent seat.
Magic Johnson
No athlete adorned my walls more than Magic. Growing up, I was a die-hard fan of the Showtime Lakers, and Magic was the pulse that kept it all alive. Watching him play was like watching joy in its purest form, as if happiness itself could dribble.
He didn’t just play basketball—he turned it into a celebration. Every time he stepped onto the court, it was like he was inviting everyone—teammates, opponents, fans—to join him in the pure thrill of the game. And I was more than happy to accept the invitation.
He didn’t just pass the ball; he orchestrated it, like a maestro conducting an orchestra of basketballs and sneakers. When Magic sent a no-look pass across the court, it felt like he had eyes in the back of his head—or maybe some supernatural sixth sense for where his teammates were at any given moment. It was more art than basketball. No one made it look easier, or more fun.
When Magic retired, it felt like a piece of my basketball soul was ripped away—like he was one of my Horcruxes (a perfect Harry Potter reference, you’re welcome). In my house (#hufflepuff), it wasn’t just a day of mourning—it was the kind of sadness that hits when you realize something truly wonderful has come to an end. And while most athletes eventually fade into the background of your sports memories, Magic never did. I missed him immediately, and honestly, I still do. Because you don’t just get over Magic Johnson—you carry him with you, like a soundtrack that still makes you smile years later.
Magic wasn’t just the first athlete I ever saw as larger than life—he was the first to make me realize that sports could be more than winning and losing. He played with a kind of joy that made you smile just watching him. It was as if every layup, every assist, every ridiculous no-look pass came with a wink and a nod that said, “Isn’t this fun?” And it was. It really was. He took the weight of competition and lifted it, reminding us that sometimes, sports are at their best when they’re played like a game, not a battle.
He’ll always be the player who made me fall in love with the game—like a first love you never quite get over, no matter how many years or players pass by.
Tiger Woods
Before Tiger Woods, golf was something I associated strictly with televised naps and vaguely pleasant background noise on Sunday afternoons. Then Tiger happened, and suddenly, golf felt like a high-stakes drama with thrilling storylines and—improbably—an actual pulse.
Tiger wasn’t just a golfer—he was a walking, breathing cultural event. People who couldn’t tell you the difference between a driver and a putter suddenly found themselves passionately debating the merits of his short game. That, more than any tournament victory or Nike commercial, felt like his greatest accomplishment.
And then, of course, there was that moment—the 2005 Masters. “The Shot,” capital T, capital S. Tiger’s ball paused dramatically on the edge of the cup, as if aware it was starring in history, before politely dropping in.
The crowd roared, Tiger celebrated, and the rest of us at home yelled and high-fived like we’d just done something more significant than spilling our chips all over the couch.
That shot summed up Tiger: audacious, thrilling, and just a bit theatrical—everything sports never knew golf could be.
Tim Howard
For me, Tim Howard was the original reason I fell in love with Everton—a relationship for which, to this day, I’m not sure whether to thank him or resent him.
It all started in the early 2000s, when I found myself searching for an English Premier League team to call my own. I spent a few aimless years, like a sports fan on a particularly unsuccessful dating app, until Tim Howard joined Everton. There he was, a fellow American standing between the posts, bravely protecting a goal that, I quickly learned, needed all the help it could get.
And that was it—I was hooked. Of course, in hindsight, falling for Everton feels less like a choice and more like agreeing to ride a roller coaster without safety restraints: thrilling, unpredictable, and occasionally nauseating. Tim was the ideal keeper for this beautifully maddening team—calmly saving impossible shots, routinely testing my cardiovascular health, and even, inexplicably, scoring a goal from his own penalty box, just to keep things interesting.
But Howard’s impact went beyond the nerve-wracking drama of Premier League weekends. He proudly wore the crest of the U.S. Men’s National Team, giving us iconic performances, like the one-man stand against Belgium in the 2014 World Cup. With sixteen saves—each one more improbable than the last—Tim singlehandedly kept our hopes alive, though my nerves may never fully recover.
Tim Howard didn’t just give me Everton; he gave me a new way to experience soccer—a cocktail of exhilaration, heartbreak, and the occasional existential crisis. He was everything you’d hope for in a goalkeeper: brave, relentless, and a bit superhuman when required.
And though Tim has since hung up his gloves, my love (and occasional despair) for Everton endures—an ongoing adventure for which, I suppose, I have only him to blame.
Tony Romo
Ah, Tony Romo—a name that, in my household, is met with a mix of reverence (from me) and playful derision (from my wife). You see, Tony has a bit of a reputation for throwing game-changing interceptions, and my wife never misses a chance to remind me of this. But let’s be clear: this is a list of my favorite players, not a ranking of people based on their number of championships—which is, let’s be honest, fortunate for Tony.
What I loved about Romo had nothing to do with Super Bowl rings or lack thereof. It was his story—going from an undrafted free agent to the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, with all the pressure that comes with America’s Team on his shoulders. Romo didn’t have it easy, and that’s what made him so compelling. He played with grit, determination, and the kind of resilience that makes you root for someone, even when things aren’t going their way (or when they’re throwing a late-game interception, depending on who you ask in my house).
And look, Romo wasn’t just out there flinging the ball around like a kid on a playground. He was a leader—someone who rallied his team, led by example, and never shied away from taking the blame when things didn’t go right. There was a courage to the way Romo played. He wasn’t afraid to take risks, even if those risks occasionally led to my wife pointing at the screen with an “I told you so” look in her eye. But that’s what made him special. Romo wasn’t perfect (and that’s putting it kindly), but he had a fire in him that refused to burn out.
Every time he took the field, you knew he was going to give everything he had, even if it meant taking a few hits and making a few mistakes along the way. And for me, that’s what made him one of my favorite players. Tony Romo was the kind of guy you couldn’t help but root for—because, despite all the interceptions and the missed opportunities, he played with a kind of joy, a kind of passion that’s hard to find.
So yes, Tony may not have racked up the championships, but he racked up something else: a place on this list and, dare I say, a place in my football heart. And that’s more than enough for me (though maybe not for my wife).
