Going to an Olympic Games is always about more than sport. It’s about immersing yourself not just in the culture of the host country, but of fans from around the world. Milan marked my eighth time at an Olympics, and once my feet were on the ground in Italy, I felt invigorated by my proximity to the customs, languages, and histories that fans brought with them. I was excited, of course, to eat the food and drink the wine (I mean, Italy -- duh), see the sites, and take in the competition. But this time around, I was also unusually aware of the weight of what being an American in this particular moment meant on a global stage.
The America I left behind when I boarded the plane at JFK felt politically raw. The American that I was when I landed in Italy worried about the unease so many around the world (and at home, including many of Team USA’s athletes) feel about what the US represents right now. But that heaviness, which I carried into sport venues, into restaurants, and down streets that buzzed with excitement, was soon replaced by so many reminders of why the Olympics might still matter.
The athletes, of course, did what athletes do, performing acts of absurd bravery and grace, hurling themselves down icy tracks, off jumps, and across frozen surfaces that I likely could not even stand on. I remain in awe of elite athletes, not just for their motivation and excellence, but also for their extraordinary commitment, their effort without irony, competing with a sincerity that cuts through the division, the cynicism, that so often defines our political moments.
When there was a lull in the action, I worried that conversations might drift from sports or cappuccino or gelato to politics, with things like voting, immigration, and tariffs put on the table. But instead, we talked about how on earth Latvian hockey fans got giant drums to Milan or what the difference is between a loop and a toe loop in figure skating. These exchanges embraced a kind of rare global agreement in which results were more important than rhetoric and patriotism consisted of the unfussy exercise of simply rooting for your team -- and anyone else that caught your eye or your heart.
For me, that was Japan’s Kaori Sakamoto. Because when you’re on the ground, in the midst of it all, the Olympics aren’t just about your home team. Dutch speed skating fans, adorned in outlandish orange outfits, their learned eyes understanding every nuance of the action, applaud excellence -- all excellence. Do they want a Dutch skater to win? Of course. Will they stomp their feet and cheer for Jordan Stolz when he sets a record in the men’s 500-meters? Absolutely. And not for nothing? They know all the words to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” and can “bah bah bah” as well as anyone at Fenway Park.
At figure skating, I marveled at how the crowd’s roar -- a generous, collective roar that grew without hesitation and knew no borders -- lifted American Amber Glen when she faltered during her short program. The spectators set aside nationality because they understood exactly how much could go wrong, how easily gravity could win. Figure skating is a lesson in vulnerability, and it demands its fans root not for flags, but for people risking public failure in pursuit of something exquisite.
This isn’t to say that rivalries aren’t fierce. At men’s hockey -- USA versus Germany -- the atmosphere crackled from before the first puck dropped. The German fans were loud, coordinated, and unapologetic (and at some point, Americans need to do better than merely chant “USA-USA-USA” because the German fan songs were legit). And, yes, they booed us. Not subtly. Not politely. Full-throated boos rained down with gleeful precision.
Did I take offense? No! Being booed didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like recognition. We were present. We mattered. We were part of a story that we wanted to end not just with a win, but with the experience of a great game. The rivalry was real, and so was the intensity. And I was all in. When the Americans scored, the celebration felt good -- high-fiving strangers in a rush of straightforward elation.
This is what the Olympics do -- they remind us of our shared stakes. The athletes of the world competed fiercely, yes, but they also congratulated one another, shared tears, swapped pins, and celebrated accomplishments that transcended borders. Alysa Liu’s joy for Ami Nakai’s bronze medal -- a stunning achievement for the youngest member of Japan’s figure skating squad -- rivaled the joy she felt for her own gold medal as she lifted the 17-year-old off her feet in an enormous bear hug.
The Olympics make space for this uncomplicated fandom, and it gave me a sense of relief to openly cheer for America on the ice and snow. Cheering for a skater or a hockey team, expressing pride, did not require a footnote or a disclaimer. Are sports political? Of course. But can they can also just be delightful? Absolutely. I could stand and cheer for Team USA without endorsing all that America is doing. I could feel patriotic without feeling defensive. I could support the humans standing on a medal podium who had trained for years without thinking about presidents or policies.
In Milan, amid centuries-old architecture, Aperol spritzes, and pizza so good it defies common sense, political reality did not evaporate. But the Olympics created space alongside it—a space where brilliance mattered, where effort was honored, and where pride could be felt without obstacle. In a fractured world, that space is not trivial. It is essential. It is dazzling.
Amy Bass is professor of sport studies and chair of the division of social science and communication at Manhattanville University. Bass is the author of ONE GOAL: A COACH, A TEAM, AND THE GAME THAT BROUGHT A DIVDED TOWN TOGETHER, among other titles. In 2012, she won an Emmy for her work with NBC Olympic Sports on the London Olympic Games.
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