Boosting their egos
New talents are always welcomed and appreciated, but the hype seems to fade out when there is a realisation that these people are not good at their respective sports. This cycle is now so familiar that it barely raises eyebrows. A promising newcomer emerges, social media erupts, headlines are written, and comparisons to legends are made far too quickly. For a brief moment, these individuals are elevated to near-mythical status, hailed as the future and marketed as saviours. Yet, when performance fails to match expectation, admiration turns to disappointment, and silence replaces praise.
These people are just there to exploit the wealth and riches that are given to them. While this may sound harsh, it reflects a growing cynicism among fans who feel repeatedly misled. Modern sport has become an industry built on branding as much as ability. Contracts are signed not only for skill, but for marketability, image, and potential reach to fool a global audience into thinking that this person is a superstar already. As a result, some athletes are rewarded before they have proven anything of substance. When success does not follow, it becomes difficult to separate genuine potential from those simply benefiting from the system’s generosity.
There is a clear distinction between geniuses and frauds, but society doesn’t want to admit this until it becomes obvious in the societal domain that a genius or a fraud has been identified. This reluctance is driven by collective ego and emotional investment. Fans want to believe they are witnessing greatness in real time. Clubs, sponsors, and media outlets have too much at stake to question the narrative early. To admit failure too soon would mean acknowledging poor judgment, wasted money, and misplaced faith.
The idea of a “genius” in sport is often romanticised. True geniuses are rare, defined not by flashes of brilliance but by consistency, adaptability, and resilience under pressure. They elevate teams, redefine standards, and deliver when it matters most. Fraudulence, on the other hand, is rarely intentional at the start. Many so-called frauds are victims of premature hype, thrust into environments they are not ready for, burdened by expectations that distort development and confidence.
Boosting egos has become one of the most damaging side effects of modern sports culture. Young athletes are praised excessively, shielded from criticism, and treated as finished products before they have earned that status. Social media amplifies this problem, creating echo chambers where any dissenting opinion is drowned out. Constructive criticism is labelled as hatred, and accountability is postponed until failure becomes undeniable, and there is no turning point for these players.
When the hype fades, the fall is often brutal. Fans feel betrayed, clubs look for scapegoats, and the athlete’s reputation is permanently scarred. At that point, society suddenly becomes comfortable using the word “fraud,” as if the signs were never there before. This delayed recognition speaks less about the individual and more about the collective unwillingness to confront reality early.
The distinction between geniuses and frauds should not be sensationalised but understood with nuance. Talent needs time, structure, and humility to mature. Not every promising athlete will become elite, and that does not automatically make them a fraud. However, pretending everyone is exceptional devalues genuine excellence and lowers standards across sport.
Ultimately, this culture of inflated praise and delayed honesty serves no one. It boosts egos temporarily but damages credibility in the long term. Until society learns to temper excitement with realism, the cycle will continue: new talent, exaggerated hype, inevitable disappointment, and late realisation. Geniuses will still rise above the noise, but frauds, real or manufactured, will keep being created by a system unwilling to tell the truth early enough.
