The Milano–Cortina Winter Olympics have finally come to an end. Watching the endless white landscapes and navigating the complexities of judged events left me more fatigued than exhilarated. And yet, amid the confusion and skepticism, there were moments that quietly moved me.
The repetition of snow-covered scenery eventually became overwhelming. Most events were individual competitions, and many were judged sports whose scoring systems were difficult to grasp. Often, it was only after commentators explained the results that I understood what had happened. That, perhaps, diminished some of the excitement.
In the past, ski jumping seemed simpler. Distance mattered most. Athletes like Matti Nykänen flew without fuss over style points. Now, sports like snowboarding—astonishing as they are—unfold in sequences of movements almost beyond imagination. Rotations are counted in multiples of 180 degrees, but trying to calculate them in real time while listening to the announcer is a losing battle.
Still, figure skating brought genuine emotion. Seeing Riku Miura and Ryuichi Kihara in tears moved me more than I expected. Even watching the highlights later, I found myself quietly tearing up again.
Akito Watabe’s final run in Nordic combined was also memorable, though the trouble he encountered was unfortunate. The discipline itself is said to be facing an existential crisis. If popularity becomes the sole criterion for survival, what will happen to traditional events? Once removed, revival is unlikely.
For young athletes who have devoted their lives to sport, the difference between winning a medal and falling short can shape the course of their futures. I am not entirely sure whether sport carries such intrinsic value. Yet a life committed so fully to a single pursuit deserves respect.
To those who earned medals, and to those who did not—well done.
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