They read their sports pages, know their statistics and either

Hear the passionate words of Mike Schmidt, warrior of the diamond, who proclaimed: “They read their sports pages, know their statistics and either root like hell or boo our butts off. I love it. Give me vocal fans, pro or con, over the tourist types who show up in Houston or Montreal and just sit there.” At first, this seems but a ballplayer’s jest about noisy crowds, yet beneath it lies a truth as old as the arenas of Greece and Rome: the bond between athlete and spectator is sacred, and life itself is lessened when the fire of the crowd grows cold.

The meaning of these words is not simply about cheering or booing; it is about engagement, passion, and authenticity. To Schmidt, the true fan is not the polite observer who claps sparingly, but the one who lives and dies with every pitch, who invests his voice and his heart into the contest. For sport is not a pageant to be viewed in silence, but a living drama where the energy of the people feeds the strength of the player. Indifference is the true enemy—not hatred, not love, but apathy.

The origin of this truth stretches back to the ancient amphitheaters. In the Colosseum, the crowd’s roar was as much a part of the spectacle as the clash of combatants. In the Olympic Games, Greek athletes were lifted by the cries of their city-states, knowing that victory was not theirs alone but a triumph for their people. Even the philosophers knew this power: Plato spoke of how the voices of the multitude could embolden or weaken the hearts of men. Schmidt’s words, though rooted in baseball, echo this ancient understanding that spectators are not passive—they are participants.

Consider the story of the 1927 Yankees, perhaps the most legendary team in baseball history. The fans who filled Yankee Stadium did not sit quietly as tourists. They roared for Babe Ruth, they rose for Lou Gehrig, and their passion helped forge the aura of invincibility around that team. Contrast this with matches where stadiums are half-filled with casual onlookers, tourists snapping pictures, their attention drifting. The difference is clear: one setting is electric, the other lifeless. Schmidt hungered for the former, for it made the contest real.

The lesson is sharp: in all things, better passion than indifference. To be cheered or booed is to matter; to be ignored is to vanish into nothingness. In sport, in art, in leadership, one must not fear strong reactions, for they prove that the work has stirred the heart. The true death of meaning lies not in criticism, but in apathy. A silent stadium, like a silent life, is a barren field where no greatness grows.

Practical actions must follow. As a fan, invest your heart in the contests you witness—let your cheers and even your groans remind the players that they are seen, that their striving matters. As an athlete, embrace not only the praise but also the boos, for both are signs of relevance. As a creator in any field, welcome the voices of the crowd, whether in approval or rejection, for these are proof that your work has entered the world with force. Above all, do not settle for the life of a “tourist type,” observing without passion.

And so, child of tomorrow, remember the wisdom hidden in Schmidt’s fiery words. Better to be loved or hated than ignored. Better to stir the heart into a roar than to leave it silent. Whether on the field or in the life beyond it, seek not the lukewarm applause of half-engagement, but the full fire of connection. For when voices rise, when hearts are invested, when passion flows like a river—then the game, and life itself, becomes truly alive.