I may live in the South, where winter is usually something we hear about on the Weather Channel, but I adore the Winter Olympics. There’s just something magical about watching sports that require both athletic brilliance and a high tolerance for frostbite. I flip on the TV, see snow piled up to the rafters, and think, “Well, that explains why these people are so fit. They’re just trying to keep warm.”
Now we’re closing in on the 2026 Winter Olympics in Milano and Cortina. Two Italian cities famous for fashion, art, and pasta, because nothing fuels a downhill skier like 14 pounds of linguine. Milano sounds glamorous. Cortina sounds like a brand of window blinds. Together they’ll host athletes who do things I wouldn’t attempt even with a helmet, a life coach, and a signed note from my doctor.
Of all the Olympic events, my favorite is still the biathlon. Only the Scandinavians could dream up a sport that combines skiing with shooting. It’s like they said, “What if we made cross-country skiing more exhausting?” And then somebody else said, “Hand them rifles.” That’s not a sport. That’s a James Bond audition.
You’ll never see anything that makes less sense. Except maybe curling.
I love curling. It’s the only Olympic event that looks like it was invented during a very boring winter by people stuck indoors with cleaning supplies. Yet I find it soothing. The sweeping, the sliding, the polite yelling. It’s basically housework with medals. I’m convinced if Southerners ever adopted curling, you’ll see folks interrupting a match to ask if anybody needs a refill of sweet tea.
Figure skating? Beautiful. Graceful. Terrifying. The commentators use phrases like “triple Lutz” and “quad toe loop,” which I believe are also the names of moves performed by squirrels on power lines. These people hurl themselves into the air, spin like ceiling fans on “high,” then land on a blade thinner than a credit card. Meanwhile, I twist my ankle stepping off the welcome mat.
Then there’s ski jumping, which should really be called “voluntary homicide.” That’s when perfectly sane-looking people strap long wooden boards to their feet, point themselves off a ledge, and hope physics is in a good mood. I sit on the couch with a blanket and think, “Nope. That’s a hard nope.” If you ever see me doing a ski jump, check the police report because somebody pushed me.
Of course, what I really love about the Olympics — winter or summer — is that it brings the entire world together. For the next two weeks, we’ll all tune in to watch athletes from every corner of the planet compete, celebrate, fall down get back up, and try again. That’s something we Southerners understand. Life is mostly falling down and getting back up, except with fewer sequins.
I’m sure Milano and Cortina will be beautiful on TV. Italy always is. and they’ll act like it’s nothing. Italians shrug and say, “Yes, yes, we have thousand-year-old cathedrals and perfect coffee and scenery so beautiful, angels pull over to take pictures.”
For the next two weeks, I’ll be right there. Couch warmed. Snacks assembled. Cheering, yelling, second-guessing, eating something fried, and pretending I understand the scoring in ice dancing.
Because I may love the Winter Olympics, but I also love having feeling in my face. And that, I assure you, is something those athletes won’t have back until at least March.
And bless their hearts for that.
My View From the cheap seats 