Why are you still supporting Ferrari?

We, Ferrari fans, are masochists. There’s no other way to put it. Season after season, we ride a rollercoaster of hope, heartbreak, and—occasionally—a glimmer of something resembling victory. And yet, we remain.

For anyone outside this bizarre cult of devotion, it makes no sense. Why, in an era of Red Bull dominance, right after Mercedes ruled the sport, while McLaren already seems on track to take everything in 2025, would someone keep pledging allegiance to a team that hasn’t won a title since 2007? Surely, at some point, the rational thing to do would be to move on. Switch to following drivers instead of teams. Especially as an Italian—that Antonelli lad looks promising after all.

But this isn’t about rationality, is it?

Ferrari is more than an Formula 1 team. It’s motorsport’s equivalent of a grand opera—dramatic, deeply Italian, and prone to sudden emotional breakdowns. It’s the rolling embodiment of national pride and nostalgia. Even when they fail spectacularly (which they often do), they fail with style.

To support Ferrari is to believe in something larger than results. It’s about legacy, about Enzo Ferrari’s ghost looming over Maranello. It’s about red—the kind of red that isn’t just paint but a declaration of history and loyalty.

Ferrari does not do efficiency. No, Ferrari is theatrical. They keep making baffling strategy calls. Their radio messages often sound like tragicomic dialogues from a Shakespeare play. One week, they look like contenders; the next, their pit crew is attempting to put a car on three tires.

It would be infuriating if it weren’t so entertaining. Supporting Ferrari is like watching a long-running soap opera where you’ve emotionally invested in the characters despite knowing full well they will make terrible life choices.

And yet, despite it all, hope is never entirely extinguished. The moment a Ferrari car looks even vaguely competitive, optimism floods back like an old addiction. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this will be the year.

You don’t have to be Italian to love Ferrari, but believe me—it helps. In Italy, Ferrari is sacred. It’s a religion, a birthright. Even if you don’t follow F1, you respect Ferrari.

But Ferrari’s magnetism extends far beyond Italy. There are tifosi in Brazil, Japan, and the UK—people who have no cultural obligation to support this infuriating team but do so anyway. Why? Because Ferrari is the last of the romantics. Because even when they lose, they do so in a way that somehow still feels like a victory for the soul of racing.

We don’t know what the future holds, but one thing is certain—there will be heartbreak. Charles Leclerc is brilliant but not quite there yet. Sir Lewis Hamilton? The hope is that his champion’s mentality seeps into Charles’ mind. The car? Fast one weekend, bewilderingly slow the next.

And yet, Ferrari fans keep showing up, keep cheering, keep believing that the next iteration of the Scuderia will finally put an end to the pain.

Maybe it will, and Italy will feel like the summer of 2006—you know what I’m talking about. Maybe it won’t. But that’s not the point.

The point is, Ferrari is forever. Mercedes is grey one year, black the next, then grey again. Red Bull came out of nowhere, and one day, just like that, it will be gone. McLaren used to be white and red, and now it’s papaya. Ferrari? Always there, always red, always iconic. The heartbreak is part of the deal.

And if you don’t understand that—hate to be a gatekeeper—but maybe you were never meant to.