I did not grow up in a sports household. No one in my family was athletically inclined, and the only time I remember football on TV was when uncles came for Thanksgiving.

My brother and I made feeble attempts at sports: summer camp taekwondo, a bit of dance and track. I played fourth-grade basketball in a participation trophy program. Why did a 4-foot-2 spelling bee star with a Chynna Phillips bowl cut and astigmatism choose the altitudinous pursuit of basketball? We'll never know. I was picked second-to-last after the tall girls huddled up and decided I would function as a Lilliputian mascot. They giggled as I slumped over in a homely "LAKERS" T-shirt, all the confidence of a wet hot dog bun.

Not exactly LeBron James material. So it seemed odd that I really loved to watch the Olympics. The Olympics! A multi-week extravaganza of fast-twitch muscle fibers, a show of vigor broadcast into living rooms for slovenly armchair judges to dissect and debate.

I understand better now why the Olympics open a door for the otherwise sports-averse. They are a theatrical event, a parable play of the highest order.

No, not the opening ceremonies with song, dance, fire and synchronized outfits, though it doesn't get more drag than that. I mean, each category comes loaded with its own dramatic micronarrative about overcoming the odds. There are supportive parents and taskmaster coaches, heroes, villains and underdogs, friendship bonds, dirty looks, tears of triumph and defeat. The stakes could not be higher, and we watch the results in real time. Furthermore, when someone wins, they get jewelry, a hunk of precious metal tied to a ribbon. Sometimes they get flowers and a crown. The Olympics might as well be a maypole dance.

And within that framework, the games invite us to dream of a more fruitful life. Of being Kristi Yamaguchi despite having never stayed upright on skates. Of a new daily regimen devoted to the luge. Of gliding with ease on the uneven bars. They ask, what if you weren't a nerdy nobody watching from your brown 1980s carpet?

What if you weren't so afraid?

The Olympics have begun their broadcast from Italy as the Milan Cortina Games. They blast back into our homes alongside Super Bowl LX, an event also arguably steeped in outsized pageantry with the added bonus of cheese dips.

Both traditions arrive at a time of intense international discord and a blooming cold war within our own borders. Super Bowl halftime performer Bad Bunny, one of the world's bestselling artists who hails from the American territory of Puerto Rico, has become an electrified post in the invisible fence of our division. Meanwhile, rumors of United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents being part of the Team USA delegation in Italy have not borne out.

These open fuses coalesce into existential questions of who gets to belong, to carry a flag, to claim kinship with a nation. With daily violence in the news and the rest of the world rightly giving Americans side-eye, it's an awkward moment to slip into the patriotism of a Ralph Lauren teddy bear sweater, to root for the home team, warts and all.

But peel off the patriotic fanfare, and the Olympics still offer the same spirit of mental opportunity they gave an uncoordinated, nearsighted child. They still grease the wheels of our innermost imaginations. They still inspire us couch-sitters to dream of enlightened callings, no matter how far-flung they feel.

I no longer wish to be a gold medal figure skater but rather, a brave and compassionate person. A curious thinker willing to be proven wrong. Someone who seeks to learn about the experiences of others rather than writing them off as strange or wrong. Someone who understands that the tapestry of life extends past our own worldviews, talents and comforts. Someone who still believes underdogs can win.

Someone who asks, what if we weren't so afraid?

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: Douglas Schneiders at Unsplash