There are moments in sport when the body forgets its limits—when adrenaline drowns out reason and you find yourself doing things that would embarrass you in any other context. For me, that moment came late on a Sunday afternoon in January, sitting in front of a screen, watching a football game I had no control over, screaming my lungs out as the Rams' kicker lined up for a game-winning field goal in Chicago. The kind of scream that makes your throat raw. The kind that your neighbors probably heard. The kind that, if you're being honest, you didn't know you had in you until the stakes were high enough.

The ball sailed through the uprights. The Rams won. They were heading to the NFC Championship game against the Seattle Seahawks. And in that moment, all the noise—the doubt, the criticism, the endless media chatter about weather and geography and historical records—went silent.

But the noise had been loud all week.

The narrative was simple, and it was everywhere: the LA Rams, a California pro football team, were heading into "minus zero wether" in Chicago, and they were doomed. Critics pointed to the record books. They pointed to past performances. They pointed to the fact that warm-weather teams historically struggle in frozen stadiums, and they used that history like a verdict. Even among people who favored the Rams in betting pools, there was this lingering skepticism—a sense that no matter how talented the roster, no matter how well-coached the team, the cold itself would be the great equalizer. Or worse, the great disadvantage.

And then there was the other side of the narrative: the Bears had practiced in the cold all week. No heat. Full exposure. The implication was clear—this was their edge. This was how you "earn" cold-weather toughness. This was preparation.

I had other ideas.

Not because I'm immune to bias—I'm a Rams fan, and I'll admit that freely—but because the conversation felt like it was missing something fundamental. It wasn't just about football. It was about how we think about environmental stressors, about adaptation, about the relationship between discomfort and performance. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the cold-weather narrative wasn't just incomplete—it was often wrong.

Cold weather is a real performance stressor. That much is true. But it's not a mystical home-field advantage. It's not destiny. And the teams that manage thermoregulation, dexterity, footing, and mental appraisal best can largely neutralize the downside.

Let's start with the most important acknowledgment: at the human level, we are all susceptible to cold. There is no genetic immunity conferred by growing up in Detroit or Green Bay or Chicago. There is no magical adaptation that makes a body impervious to the laws of thermodynamics. When the temperature drops, the body responds in predictable ways, and those responses have consequences for athletic performance.

The first and most immediate response is vasoconstriction—the narrowing of blood vessels in the extremities to preserve core body temperature. This is a survival mechanism, and it's effective at what it does. But it comes with a cost. When blood flow to the hands and feet is reduced, those areas cool faster. For athletes, that means reduced dexterity and grip strength. In football, that translates to difficulty catching, throwing with precision, maintaining ball security, and even making fine adjustments in foot placement during cuts and pivots. The hands, in particular, are critical for nearly every skill position, and cold hands are slower hands.

The second major effect is lower muscle temperature. Cold muscles are stiffer. They contract less efficiently. They produce force, but not with the same explosiveness or elasticity that warm muscles do. This affects acceleration, change of direction, and the ability to decelerate and re-accelerate quickly—all movements that define high-level athletic performance. You may still be strong in a general sense, but the quality of that strength—the speed at which it can be expressed, the fluidity with which it can be redirected—is compromised.

Then there's the nervous system. If core body temperature begins to drop, or if an athlete starts a game already cold, cognitive sharpness and reaction time can suffer. Decision-making under stress is not purely a mental skill; it's also a physiological one. The brain, like the muscles, operates best within a narrow temperature range. When that range is violated, processing speed slows. Reaction times lengthen. The margin for error shrinks.

There's also the metabolic cost of staying warm. Generating heat isn't free. Even subtle shivering and the constant work of thermoregulation increase energy expenditure. If an athlete is under-fueled—if glycogen stores are low or caloric intake hasn't matched the demands of the day—that cost becomes noticeable, especially late in a game or training session. Fatigue sets in faster. Endurance suffers.

And finally, there's the respiratory challenge. Cold, dry air can irritate the airways, making high-intensity efforts feel harder. For some athletes, this affects pacing. For others, it's a minor annoyance. But in either case, it's another variable to manage.

So no—I don't argue that cold "does nothing." I argue something more useful: cold does specific things, and those things are manageable. The key is understanding the mechanisms well enough to prepare for them, rather than treating cold as some vague, insurmountable force.

One of the loudest claims I heard all week was this: the Bears practiced in the cold without heat, so they would be better prepared on Sunday. The logic seemed intuitive—expose yourself to the stressor, and you'll adapt. Build toughness. Earn an edge.

But that logic conflates two very different things: acclimation and readiness.

Acclimation is real. If you expose yourself to cold repeatedly over time, your body does make adjustments. You learn what gear works. You figure out how long your warm-up needs to be. You develop routines for keeping your hands warm between plays or sets. You remove the novelty factor—the shock of discomfort that can derail focus the first time you encounter it. All of that is valuable.

But acclimation is not the same as being ready to perform at your peak on a specific day. And this is where the practice-in-the-cold narrative breaks down.

Late in a season—or late in a training cycle—the primary goal is not to prove you can endure discomfort. The primary goal is to arrive on game day healthy, fueled, and neurally sharp. If cold-weather practice adds fatigue, inflammation, tightness, or minor strains, you can lose more than you gain. The body doesn't distinguish between "good stress" and "bad stress" when it's already dealing with the cumulative wear and tear of a long season. Stress is stress. Recovery capacity is finite.

This is especially true for professional athletes, who are not operating with fresh bodies in January. As the season progresses, wear and tear accumulates. Joints ache. Soft tissue is irritated. The nervous system is taxed. In that context, the mental side of cold-weather practice—the confidence that comes from having done it before—may offer some benefit. But the physical side—the actual exposure to cold during practice—can easily become a liability if it compromises the body's ability to recover.

The principle I wrote in my original post still holds: "the main thing is recover well throughout the week enough for you to perform on Sunday." That's not laziness. That's smart preparation. It's the recognition that performance on game day is the only thing that matters, and everything you do in the days leading up to it should be in service of that singular goal.

In my original argument, I pointed out that some Rams players had significant cold-weather experience. Blake Corum played at Michigan. Matthew Stafford spent many seasons in Detroit. The implication was clear: these weren't players stepping into the unknown. They had been here before.

But it's important to clarify what that experience actually provides. It's not that their bodies are "built different." It's not that they possess some genetic advantage that makes them immune to vasoconstriction or muscle stiffness. The advantage is psychological and procedural—it's the reduction of uncertainty.

Athletes with cold-weather experience have already answered the questions that create anxiety for others. They know what gloves work. They know how their body feels in the first quarter versus the fourth. They know what their warm-up needs to look like to get their muscles firing properly. They know that discomfort is temporary and manageable, not catastrophic. And perhaps most importantly, they have confidence that they can still execute their skills in those conditions.

Confidence is not a trivial factor. It shapes attention, decision-making, and risk tolerance. An athlete who believes they can perform in the cold is more likely to stay aggressive, to trust their technique, to make the play when it matters. An athlete who doubts themselves—who has internalized the narrative that "we can't win here"—is more likely to hesitate, to tense up, to make the mistake that confirms the narrative.

So when I say that experience helps, I'm not saying it makes the cold go away. I'm saying it makes the cold less disruptive—less of a cognitive burden, less of a source of doubt. And in high-stakes performance, that matters enormously.

I wrote in my original post: "If field conditions is the problem, slipping and wind conditions equally affects both team." That's true in the sense that the exposure is equal. The turf is slippery for everyone. The wind blows on every pass. The cold numbs every hand.

But exposure is not the same as effect.

Teams and athletes differ in their ability to adapt to constrained conditions. Some have better balance and proprioception—the body's sense of where it is in space—which allows them to adjust their footing more quickly when traction is compromised. Some have more consistent technique, which holds up better under stress. Some have play styles that are less dependent on timing and precision, which makes them more resilient to disruptions like wind or slick surfaces.

Footwear choices matter. Communication execution matters. The ability to stay calm and make adjustments on the fly matters. And all of these factors create variance in how much the conditions actually cost each team.

This is why cold-weather games often look "messy." It's not that one team is destined to fail. It's that fewer teams can execute cleanly when the margins shrink. The teams that can—those with superior technique, better preparation, and more adaptable systems—are the ones that win.

So the better way to frame it is this: Conditions are shared. Adaptation isn't.

There's a common refrain in sports: "mental toughness wins in the cold." And there's truth to that—but it's incomplete.

At the highest levels of sport, everyone is tough. NFL players are not strangers to discomfort. They've played through injuries, through exhaustion, through hostile crowds and high-pressure moments. The separator is rarely who can endure discomfort. The separator is who can stay task-focused while uncomfortable.

Cold can become a psychological trap. You feel numb hands, so you start thinking about your numb hands. You grip the ball tighter to compensate, which makes your hands stiffer, which makes the problem worse. You hear the narrative that "warm-weather teams can't win here," and you start to believe it. You tense up. You rush decisions. You confirm the narrative.

The best mental skill in cold weather is not hype or bravado. It's a calm, practical mindset that treats the cold as a constraint, not a curse. It's the ability to reframe the situation: "This is harder for everyone. I control my warm-up, my layers, my technique, my next play." It's the discipline to narrow attention to the task at hand—the route, the block, the tackle—rather than the discomfort in the background. It's the use of routines to create predictability and reduce stress.

This is what I meant when I wrote: "don't forget this is the NFL, everyone is tough." Toughness is table stakes. What separates performance is the ability to manage attention and appraisal under constraint.

If cold weather is a manageable stressor, then the question becomes: what does effective preparation look like?

It starts with the warm-up. Cold doesn't forgive lazy warm-ups. You need to raise core temperature and local muscle temperature deliberately and progressively. That means starting with low-intensity movement—jogging, skipping, mobility flows—and building to sport-specific intensity. Short bursts. Accelerations. Jumps. Movements that mimic the demands of the game or workout. Static stretching while cold is largely ineffective and potentially risky; save it for after you're warm or after the session.

Next is layering. The goal is not just warmth—it's dryness. Moisture accelerates heat loss, so the base layer should be moisture-wicking (synthetic or merino wool, not cotton). The mid-layer provides insulation. The outer layer blocks wind. You adjust as needed, but the principle is constant: stay dry, stay warm, stay mobile.

Extremities are critical. Hands and feet drive performance details. Keep gloves or hand warmers nearby between plays or sets. Choose socks that wick moisture and provide insulation (wool or synthetic). Cover the head and ears if needed—easy heat conservation with minimal performance cost.

Fueling and hydration are often overlooked in cold weather because thirst cues are reduced. But the body's need for fluids and fuel doesn't change. Hydrate intentionally. Keep carbohydrates in the plan, especially for longer sessions, because carbs support high output and help cover the metabolic cost of heat production.

And finally, have a mental script. Something simple. Something you can return to when the discomfort starts to creep in. "Warm hands, warm feet, next rep." "Smooth cuts, strong base." "Execute—don't argue with the weather." Write it down if you have to. The point is to give your mind a clear, controllable focus when everything else feels chaotic.

I ended my original post with this line: "The football game will be won on the field with experience and grits." I still believe that. But I'd refine it now.

Cold weather doesn't decide outcomes by itself. It raises the cost of mistakes. It rewards teams and athletes who plan better, who understand the mechanisms, who arrive warmer and sharper and calmer. The "advantage" is rarely that one team is from a cold city. The advantage is that one team shows up more prepared to execute when everything feels a little harder.

The Rams won that game in Chicago. They won because they executed. Because they had players with experience. Because their coaching staff—led by McVay, a genius in play calling—put them in position to succeed. Because they had a "stout defensive front seven" and a potential MVP in Stafford. Because they managed the variables that mattered.

The cold was real. But it wasn't destiny.

And that's the lesson I want people to take from this: whether you're an NFL team heading into a playoff game or a weekend warrior training through winter, the cold is a challenge you can meet. Not by suffering through it. Not by pretending it doesn't exist. But by understanding it, preparing for it, and refusing to let it become the story.

The cold doesn't win games. Poor preparation does.