The People vs. VoxIncredible: Why This 38-Year-Old Man Definitely Doesn’t Belong

Last night I realized I am currently emotionally invested in the career of a Slovenian cyclist because I was being an idiot.

 

Which, honestly, is a pretty good summary of how most of my hobbies start.

 

The night I made my Vuelta bets, I wasn't studying cycling analytics.

 

I didn't know who the breakout young riders were.

 

I didn't spend three hours comparing climbing numbers, team strategy, historical performance, or whatever people who actually know cycling do before putting money on a race.

 

I bet on every spelling of Jacob.

 

That's it.

 

My son's name is Jacob.

 

Jacob. Jakob. Whatever the sportsbook wanted to throw at me.

 

And buried somewhere in that list was:

 

Jakob Omrzel. +30,000.

 

Thirty cents.

 

Potential payout: $90.30.

 

Fuck it.

 

Welcome to the family, Jakob.

 

Fast-forward a few days and this stupid thirty-cent bet has me checking the general classification of the Vuelta a España.

 

After Stage 6, Omrzel is sitting 15th overall.

 

Is he thirteen minutes behind Tadej Pogačar?

 

Yes.

 

Is Pogačar currently riding like he was constructed in a Slovenian laboratory specifically to make my thirty cents disappear?

 

Also yes.

 

But that's not really the point anymore.

 

I paid thirty cents for a storyline.

 

Every afternoon there is now some dude halfway around the world riding a bicycle up a mountain and I have a reason to yell, “COME ON JAKOB.”

 

That is an unbelievable return on investment.

 

And somehow that ridiculous little bet made me think about Rocket League.

 

Because last night I was doing almost the exact opposite.

 

Instead of taking something meaningless and allowing myself to have fun caring about it, I was taking something I genuinely enjoy and finding every possible reason to make it stressful.

 

I'm in preseason with the Clam Jammers.

 

I'm trying to earn a roster spot.

 

And because I spent the last several years mostly playing 1v1, I'm essentially relearning how to exist inside a 3v3 rotation without looking like a confused Golden Retriever who wandered onto the field.

 

The funny thing is that some of the things I thought I was doing responsibly might actually be removing me from the play.

 

I was told:

 

Stay moving.

 

When you're back, grab pads.

 

Reasonable advice.

 

My brain apparently translated that into:

 

YOU MUST HAVE BOOST. IF YOU DO NOT HAVE BOOST YOU ARE A LIABILITY TO YOUR FAMILY AND COMMUNITY.

 

So I started noticing something in the replays.

 

I'm back.

 

The play is developing.

 

I could move forward.

 

I could pressure.

 

I could make myself available.

 

Instead, somewhere in the back of my brain I'm thinking:

 

Thirty-two boost.

 

Twenty-four boost.

 

There is a pad.

 

And off I go.

 

I'm not rotating.

 

I'm grocery shopping.

 

Meanwhile, the actual Rocket League game continues without me.

 

There was one play where I completely missed a connection with the ball because I was about two meters underneath it.

 

Not mechanically beaten.

 

Not some incredible defensive read.

 

Just:

 

Ball up there.

 

Vox down here.

 

Whoops.

 

Then there's Flosh.

 

This was only my second game playing with him, and his rotations confuse the shit out of me.

 

Sometimes he'll cut back into a play where I've already mentally committed to being the next man.

 

My suspicion is that he hasn't learned yet that I'm a patient player.

 

Which means from his perspective he might be thinking:

 

Vox isn't going.

 

And from my perspective I'm thinking:

 

I'm waiting for the correct moment.

 

Then he goes.

 

Then I hesitate.

 

Then suddenly three adults are playing an extremely complicated version of “No, you go.”

 

That isn't necessarily anybody playing badly.

 

That's chemistry.

 

That's communication.

 

That's why preseason scrimmages exist.

 

But tell that to my brain at midnight while I'm reviewing the replay.

 

Because my brain doesn't say:

 

“You're learning a teammate's tendencies.”

 

It says:

 

“THEY'RE GOING TO CUT YOU.”

 

That is where things get stupid.

 

I can look at Jakob Omrzel thirteen minutes behind Pogačar and have completely rational expectations.

 

Thirty-cent bet.

 

15th place.

 

Massive long shot.

 

Still fun.

 

I don't look at the standings and scream:

 

“JAKOB, YOU FUCKING FAILURE. WHY AREN'T YOU WINNING THE VUELTA?”

 

That would be insane.

 

He's competing against some of the best cyclists on Earth.

 

He's learning.

 

He's surviving.

 

He's still there.

 

Yet put me into a Rocket League lobby with players slightly above where I'm comfortable and suddenly none of that grace applies.

 

A missed aerial becomes evidence.

 

A weird rotation becomes evidence.

 

Low offensive involvement becomes evidence.

 

Every mistake joins the prosecution.

 

The People vs. VoxIncredible: Why This 38-Year-Old Man Definitely Doesn't Belong in Car Soccer.

 

Meanwhile there is another interpretation of the exact same night.

 

I'm learning 3v3 again.

 

I'm playing with unfamiliar teammates.

 

I'm starting to understand that I may be over-prioritizing boost when I'm third man.

 

I'm recognizing moments where being “safe” becomes being passive.

 

I'm noticing that communication with Flosh could solve several situations that currently feel unpredictable.

 

And I'm watching the fucking replays.

 

That's important.

 

Because three years of mostly 1v1 taught me certain instincts really well.

 

Challenge.

 

Shadow.

 

Read the opponent.

 

Trust myself defensively.

 

But 3v3 asks a different question:

 

Can you trust the other two people enough to stay involved?

 

That might actually be my biggest adjustment.

 

In 1v1, leaving a play to grab boost can be calculated.

 

In 3v3, disappearing for boost when your teammates are expecting pressure changes the entire shape of the field.

 

Third man doesn't mean goalkeeper.

 

Patient doesn't mean absent.

 

Safe doesn't always mean useful.

 

Those are things I'm still learning.

 

And maybe that's why the stupid cycling bet hit me the way it did.

 

Thirty cents gave me permission to enjoy uncertainty.

 

Rocket League makes me want to eliminate it.

 

I want to know whether I'm making the roster.

 

I want to know whether the rotation was correct.

 

I want to know whether the coach liked that challenge.

 

I want to know whether that missed ball mattered.

 

I want the answer now.

 

But preseason doesn't work like that.

 

Neither does a three-week bike race.

 

Sometimes your guy is 15th.

 

Sometimes you're sitting on twelve boost wondering whether you should grab the corner or rotate into the play.

 

Sometimes you don't know yet how the story ends.

 

The thirty-cent version of me understands that perfectly.

 

He just watches.

 

He laughs.

 

He roots for Jakob.

 

Maybe Rocket League Vox could learn something from him.

 

Because if Jakob Omrzel somehow wins the Vuelta, I get ninety bucks and one of the dumbest gambling stories of my life.

 

And if I somehow survive Clam Jammers cuts, I'm absolutely going to laugh about how much time I spent worrying about twelve fucking boost.

 

Until then:

 

Stay in the play.

 

Communicate.

 

Grab the pad when it actually makes sense.

 

And, apparently,

 

COME ON JAKOB.