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When the Winter Olympics turn their cameras to curling, Americans get a confused, delighted look at a sport where the guy with a “dad bod” and a sense of humor can outmaneuver the snack-table athletes of televised spectacle. It’s the kind of wholesome, unpretentious competition that makes late-night viewers fall in love every four years — a blend of strategy, camaraderie, and genuine effort that the elites keep pretending is quaint.
Curling didn’t spring from some corporate think tank; it was born on Scottish ponds in the 16th century and carried across the Atlantic by hardy immigrants who liked getting outside in winter instead of sulking about climate trends. That long, stubborn history explains why granite stones and broom-handling matter so much to the people who play it — it’s a tradition, not a trendy product placement.
For anyone who thinks curling is “just pushing rocks,” learn the basics: teams slide 42-pound granite stones toward a target called the house while teammates sweep the ice to control speed and curl. The game is tight, tactical, and oddly scientific — every sweep can change the trajectory and turn a plan into victory or humiliation. Don’t underestimate the skill; the ice, the weight, and the timing are as much part of the contest as any tackle or slam dunk.
Yes, curling’s path into the Olympics was bumpy — it appeared in 1924, floated as a demonstration off and on, and only became an official Olympic sport again in Nagano in 1998 — but that doesn’t make it illegitimate. The Games have evolved, adding events like mixed doubles in recent years to reflect changing participation, and curling has adapted without losing its soul. If the IOC can tinker with formats, at least curling keeps proving its worth with real competition and dramatic finishes.
Still, there’s something deliciously subversive about watching a sport that resists the gilded, woke makeover so many institutions insist on imposing. While billion-dollar leagues chase celebrity and brand deals, curling rewards steady hands, teamwork, and common-sense strategy — values that actually resonate with working-class Americans who know the dignity of honest effort. If the elites want to sneer, let them; the rest of us will cheer when the guy who fixes your roof or coaches little league wins the end.
American curlers have given that cheer real weight. John Shuster’s men shocked the world with a gold in PyeongChang, a reminder that grit beats PR-driven glory, and recent U.S. teams have continued to punch above their weight against better-funded programs. The rise of athletes like Cory Thiesse and Korey Dropkin showing up on the Olympic podium proves that the sport rewards character and clutch performances — not spin.
So yes, laugh if you must at the sweater vests and the sliding stones, but don’t confuse good-natured mockery with contempt. Curling is a reminder that America’s sporting spirit is broader than an elite’s idea of prestige, and that ordinary men and women still find glory in teamwork, precision, and perseverance. We should celebrate that — and while we’re at it, stop letting the cultural gatekeepers decide which pursuits deserve respect and which are dismissed as quaint.
