The gym roars with chants, flashlights wave like concert glow sticks, and a sea of students in green and white fills the bleachers. The Patriot Cagers have tipped off—and for a moment, it feels less like a game and more like a show. Phones rise in unison, capturing every shot, every cheer, every celebration, all for the next viral clip. It’s as if we fear experiencing a moment without archiving it. 

From my seat, I catch myself doing the same thing: angling my camera just right, mentally picking which clips fit my story better. I think I want everyone to know I was here—but not so much that they’ll skip my stories. Before I realize it, two minutes of play have passed, and I’ve watched more through a screen than with my own eyes. The game unfolds in front of me, but I, together with half the audience, is busy producing content around it.

School spirit has always been part of the Lasallian identity. There’s pride in wearing our colors, in chanting “Animo!” with conviction, in standing by our athletes as they play for something bigger than themselves. But somewhere between the confetti and the hashtags, a shift becomes clear: the celebration sometimes outshines the competition it’s meant to uplift.

In a University that prides itself on Lasallian values, our sports culture seems to teeter between authenticity and appearance. Are we cheering because we care, or because it looks good to care?

The noise that drowns the game

The cheers are loud, the banners are bright, and the social media feeds are flooded. But in all the noise, the sport itself can fade into the background. We cheer for the dunk but miss the defensive rotation that made it possible. We scream at a point but barely look up from our screens long enough to understand how it was earned.

Sitting courtside, I see this disconnect most when posting stories mid-game. The gym is loud, but the attention feels thin—present in volume, yet scattered. Support becomes a moment to document, not a moment to absorb.

A glimpse beyond the spotlight

I found my answer far from our home court. Last year, covering the National Private Schools Athletic Association (PRISAA) Games as a Sports Staffer, I witnessed a different kind of sportsmanship. There were no sponsors, no booming crowds, no flashy banners or viral hashtags—just athletes playing with raw grit and unspoken grace. One scene stays with me: a volleyball player from a small state university diving for a save in a nearly empty gym. 

No applause. No flashes. Just the squeak of her shoes and the sharp thud of the ball on her forearms. She lost the point, but her commitment was unshakeable. That quiet, unadorned sincerity was a stark contrast to the sometimes “obligatory” hype back on campus. It reminded me that genuine athletic excellence doesn’t need an audience to be real.

When applause becomes performance

Returning to the University scene, the difference is impossible to ignore. The energy is bigger, the production more polished, but the connection to the athletes’ journey can feel more fragile. Some games draw crowds where support feels like a trend—a social obligation measured by visibility rather than genuine understanding. For someone who has participated in countless sports coverage, I came to a realization that true support isn’t just about showing up; it’s about knowing who the players are, the injuries they’ve overcome, and the weight of the jersey they wear. It’s about valuing the process, not just the photo opportunity.

Cheering for the right reasons

There is nothing wrong with celebration; the energy of a united crowd is part of what makes sports beautiful. But the choice between a sport and a spectacle ultimately comes down to where we place our heart as a community. When we watch to witness, not to record—when we cheer because we care, not because the camera is on—school spirit becomes something deeper.

The spectacle doesn’t need to disappear. It simply needs to step back, making room for what matters: the athletes who train in silence, the stories written in sweat, and the games that deserve to be watched, and not just posted.

Real school spirit isn’t measured by the volume of our noise, but by the heart behind it.

Originally published in Heraldo Filipino Volume 40, Issue 1.