My extended Navy deployments all took place during the summer, which meant repeated Mediterranean port calls during Wimbledon, the World Cup, and the European football championships. At the time, most Americans, me included, paid little attention to international soccer. But once we tied up overseas, it was impossible to ignore.

The waterfront bars were packed well beyond capacity. Merchant mariners, truck drivers, longshoremen, sailors, tourists, and local families spilled onto the sidewalks, all gathered around televisions that seemed impossibly small by today’s standards. The conversations were a mix of languages I couldn’t understand, but when the referee blew the whistle, none of that mattered.

A spectacular save brought the same gasp.

A disputed call drew the same chorus of protest.

An improbable goal produced the same eruption of joy.

The cheers needed no translation.

What struck me most wasn’t the match itself. It was the crowd. People from different countries, cultures, and backgrounds had found a common language through competition. For ninety minutes, complete strangers became a community.

There was something else I noticed over the years. Whenever an underdog threatened to upset one of the tournament favorites, the energy changed. The crowd leaned in. Even people with no connection to the smaller nation seemed to find themselves quietly pulling for them.

Why?

Because hope is universal.

We know the odds are long. We know the favorites usually prevail. Yet we’re drawn to the possibility that preparation, determination, and a little courage might overcome size, reputation, or history.

We don’t just cheer for the underdog because they might win. We cheer because they remind us that outcomes aren’t always predetermined.

That observation has stayed with me far longer than the scores of any match.

As our nation marks its 250th anniversary, I’ve been thinking about why that instinct resonates so deeply with Americans. In many ways, ours is an original underdog story. Thirteen colonies challenged the world’s most powerful empire with no guarantee of success.

Whether viewed through history, entrepreneurship, exploration, or innovation, we’ve long admired those willing to attempt what others considered improbable.

I’ve had a front-row seat to that same spirit throughout my career. Some of the most rewarding moments haven’t come from helping established leaders stay on top. They’ve come from watching determined companies break through barriers that many believed were permanent. I’ve watched small businesses earn their first major defense programs, new primes displace long-established incumbents, and companies built around software, autonomy, and artificial intelligence reshape how our military thinks about future conflict.

Not all of them succeeded. Most underdogs never do. But every breakthrough changes expectations for those that follow.

Healthy competition challenges complacency, rewards better ideas, and reminds us that today’s market leader isn’t guaranteed tomorrow’s success.

That’s as true in business as it is in sports.

I still couldn’t tell you who won most of the matches I watched from those Mediterranean ports decades ago. What I remember are the crowds, the cheers, and the realization that some things don’t require a common language.

Hope is one of them.

So is ambition.

Perhaps that’s why Americans have always found themselves cheering for the underdog. Deep down, we still believe today’s long shot may become tomorrow’s champion.

What Am I Reading?

No Ordinary Bird by Artis Henderson wasn’t the book I expected.

At first glance, it appears to be the story of an Eastern Airlines pilot who became entangled in South Florida’s drug trade during the 1970s and 1980s. Having grown up in Florida during that era, I recognized much of the backdrop immediately. Henderson captures a remarkable period when marijuana and, later, cocaine trafficking became woven into parts of the state’s culture and economy. Long before Miami Vice brought that world into America’s living rooms, many Floridians had already seen it creeping into everyday life.

I certainly had.

Growing up in what most people would have considered a comfortable Boca Raton neighborhood, our next-door neighbor was arrested for cocaine trafficking. He was a troubled Vietnam veteran living with disabilities, and his story was a reminder that the drug trade wasn’t confined to distant ports or the streets of Miami. It found its way into ordinary neighborhoods, drawing in people who might never have imagined crossing that line, lured by the promise of fast money that seemed to be everywhere.

What surprised me about Henderson’s book, however, was where the story ultimately leads.

As she pieces together the pilot’s life (her father by his second marriage), she raises the possibility that his flying extended beyond smuggling into the murky intersection of covert U.S. government activities supporting anti-Sandinista forces in Nicaragua. Whether every connection can be proven isn’t really the point. The book illustrates how difficult it can be to distinguish criminal enterprise, intelligence operations, private actors, and government interests when events are unfolding in real time. The lines are often far less distinct than they appear in hindsight.

That was my biggest takeaway.

We tend to believe today’s headlines reveal the whole story because we have twenty-four-hour news, smartphones, and social media. Yet history reminds us that much of what shapes events happens behind a thin veil. Years later, investigative reporting, memoirs, declassified documents, and careful historical research often reveal a far more complicated picture than anyone understood at the time.

Reading No Ordinary Bird made me think less about one pilot’s remarkable life than about how governments pursue national interests, how they protect sensitive activities, and how history slowly comes into focus.

It reinforced a habit that’s served me well throughout my career: resist the temptation to assume we’re seeing the whole picture. We rarely are.