Lewis: The last thing we still share
Every four years, for a brief and inspiring moment, the world remembers how to sit together.
The Olympics are one of the last remaining places where we still agree on the basics: faster is better than slower, higher beats lower, and a clean landing deserves applause no matter whose flag is on the uniform. Politics pauses, if only slightly. National anthems play without irony. Strangers cheer side by side for people they have never met.
Here in the Vail Valley, that sense of connection isn’t abstract. We don’t just watch the Olympics — we recognize the athletes. We ski the same slopes, ride the same lifts, pass each other at City Market. When a local athlete pushes out of the start gate wearing Team USA, the global suddenly becomes personal. Pride becomes shared. That’s what makes the Olympics feel less like entertainment and more like a reminder of something we risk losing in our community and our nation.
Not that long ago, we had shared cultural experiences that bound us together almost effortlessly. Everyone watched M*A*S*H. Everyone knew Star Wars. Seinfeld wasn’t niche; it was common language. You didn’t ask whether someone had seen it — you just referenced it, and they nodded.
The Super Bowl used to be that way. You could root for different teams, but you watched the same game, the same commercials, the same halftime show. Now we have an “alternative halftime” because, somehow, we can’t appreciate or even listen to music from a person whose political views don’t match our own.
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Globally, the fractures are deeper and more dangerous. Tariffs are destroying interdependencies that strengthened global ties. Alliances are treated as transactional. NATO is openly questioned. Friendly nations are insulted. Greenland becomes a takeover target instead of a partner. Countries that once trusted each other now hedge, retreat, and harden.
This didn’t happen by accident.
I don’t blame conservatives or liberals. I don’t blame disagreement — disagreement is healthy, necessary, and deeply American.
I blame Donald Trump.
Trump weaponized disagreement. He doesn’t treat people who disagree with him as wrong — he treats them as enemies — people to be mocked, persecuted, and prosecuted. He doesn’t ask for belief so much as submission. Loyalty matters more than principle. Consistency matters less than worship.
Unfortunately, like a virus, this mentality has infected our society.
You can see it locally. School boards. Town councils. HOAs. Every issue becomes existential. Every debate is framed as us versus them. Nuance is treated with suspicion. The middle ground is dismissed as cowardice.
Globally, the consequences are sharper. Economic ties once stabilized the world are now framed as vulnerabilities. Cooperation gives way to dominance. The idea that shared prosperity leads to shared peace has been replaced by the belief that someone must always lose.
And then, every four years, the Olympics arrive and quietly remind us that of how it should be.
Right now, as Winter Olympics athletes clip in, push out of the gate, and launch themselves down icy courses, we’re watching something that feels almost radical. Competitors from countries that disagree — sometimes violently — still agree on the rules. They shake hands at the finish. They congratulate rivals. They lose with grace and win without demanding loyalty oaths. They win and lose but no one is called a loser. They can compete, win and lose without being enemies. It is all about effort, respect, and a shared framework everyone agrees to honor.
We don’t need to pretend our differences don’t exist. We don’t need to abandon convictions or avoid hard debates. What we need is to stop morphing disagreement into hatred — locally, nationally, and globally.
The Olympics won’t fix politics. But the athletes do show us what healthy competition looks like. They show us that competition doesn’t require contempt, and that disagreement doesn’t have to be weaponized.
For a few weeks every four years, the world remembers how to be a community — imperfect, noisy, competitive, but still connected. That memory matters.
Because if we can still cheer together for a downhill run, a clean jump, or a perfect skate, then maybe we haven’t lost as much as it sometimes feels.
Mark Lewis, a Colorado native, had a long career in technology, including serving as the CEO of several tech companies. He’s now retired and writes thriller novels. Mark and his wife, Lisa, and their two Australian Shepherds, Kismet and Cowboy, reside in Edwards.
