Super Bowl Sunday. The day you gather with family and friends to watch the biggest sporting event of the year while eating copious amounts of food.

Often, the game itself is unremarkable, holding attention only as long as the commercials entertain. After that, people drift into side conversations, card games, phones, or the kitchen. This year, our group wandered into one of those questions that sounds trivial but lingers longer than expected: which NFL fan base is the loudest?

As anyone seeking truth would do, we consulted ChatGPT. The results pointed to Seattle and Kansas City as peak outdoor decibel monsters. However (and stay with me, please), we also learned Minnesota is considered as having the most efficient loudness (maximum damage per fan voice). 

Several reasons were given for this last observation, but the point that stood out to me was the SKOL chant, which  isn’t just loud; it can be considered psychological warfare. 

I’ve been a Minnesota Vikings fan for as long as I can remember. Which means I’ve spent a lifetime living just shy of celebration. Almost there. Almost good enough. Almost our year. 

Vikings fans don’t need to rehearse the history. We carry it quietly. Seasons that unraveled late. Moments that promised more than they delivered. The familiar tightening in the chest that comes right before hope reminds you not to get too comfortable.

And yet… we stay.

Growing up in the Midwest prepares you for this kind of loyalty. Winter is long. Storms come whether you’re ready or not. You don’t quit because it’s hard. You don’t walk away because it didn’t turn out the way you hoped. You show up again, dressed in purple, knowing full well how the story might go and often has.

That’s what makes the SKOL chant interesting.

Rooted in Norse tradition, SKOL is a communal toast, a declaration made together. Over time, it has come to mean something deeper. It doesn’t say we won. It says we are here. It isn’t reckless optimism or chest thumping confidence. It’s communal resolve. A decision made together before the outcome is known. There’s discipline in that.

At this stage of life, I’m drawn to that kind of hope more than ever. Retirement has stripped away structure. Faith doesn’t always come with tidy answers. Family life stretches across distances we didn’t anticipate. Dreams shift. Plans soften. Some things arrive late. Others never quite do.

And still… we stay.

Being a Vikings fan trained me for this season. It taught me how to love something without demanding it perform. How to keep showing up without bargaining for results. How to believe presence has value, even when the ending isn’t the one you would have chosen.

So yes, I still chant SKOL.

Not because I’m convinced the ending will be different this time, but because I’ve learned that faithfulness matters, even when it’s almost …  but not quite.