Backing the overdog—why we prefer to support winners

I was talking to my mom in Texas when my dad came on the line and said, “Tiger just birdied the 15th. He’s two up with three to play.” For some reason, this counted as breaking news, so I turned on the television and watched the end.

As Woods lined up the final two-foot putt for the championship you could see him almost physically restraining the emotional build-up—like holding something on a leash, you have to keep still. His first modest fist-pump, after the ball rolled in, was a product of that self-restraint. It might have been just another two-footer. Then he picked the ball out of the cup and lifted his arms with the club held high and shouted. Whatever had been held in was now released. Afterwards, before embracing his caddy, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and pulled off his cap and looked suddenly like what he was, a balding unbelievably happy middle-aged man.

Why did I want him to win? Why did my dad (who used to be a scratch golfer himself, in high school) interrupt the conversation to let me know he was about to? The romance of the underdog doesn’t need much explanation but there is also a romance of the overdog.

They may be less fashionable to root for but we do it anyway; there’s a reason you see so many Manchester United and New York Yankee caps bobbing around. Part of the appeal is just narrative drive—the overdog is often the guy you’ve heard of. When Serena Williams loses, especially if you’re only a part-time follower of the sport, the player who replaces her in the draw is probably the equivalent of a character actor, the kind who isn’t supposed to survive until the end.

The star occupies the role of protagonist; other players, the circumstances themselves, should arrange themselves around her. Which is why there’s something weirdly upsetting about watching Serena fail, even though, what does she need another major for?

Economists talk about marginal utility—a unit of value is worth more to people who have less. Yet even for people who care about inequality in more important areas of life, I’m not sure how much their sporting preferences can be explained by marginal utility. Just listen to the crowds cheer Roger Federer at Wimbledon or Woods at Augusta.

I’m lucky enough (supply your own replacement adjective) to have not only an economist in the family but two philosophers. Sometimes, almost in spite of your better instincts, ideas filter through. One of the arguments against utilitarianism is Robert Nozick’s utility monster. He imagines a creature that gets enormously more “utility” from consuming a resource than anyone else. Therefore it makes sense to allow the monster more resources than anyone else. But instead of resenting the monster—at least on the football pitch, on the tennis court, on the golf course—we cheer them on.

As Tiger tees off in July at the Open at Royal Portrush, trying to chase down Jack Nicklaus’s record of 18 major championships, I’ll probably root for him, too. Part of the appeal of the utility monster is that they seem to care more than ordinary humans. Winning means more to them than it does to saner people. And instead of resenting them for it, it moves us, or gives us pleasure, to see so much pleasure being consumed.

You can imagine one of those complicated heat maps that measures the consumption of energy—to show for example, the efficiency of a house—adapted to describe the 18th hole at Augusta when Woods rolled in that putt. The dark flame of red that would have pulsed from his figure when he bent down carefully to retrieve his ball, growing brighter as he finally shook off the deep, painful habit of self-restraint to lift his club in the air.