In the rarefied, oxygen-depleted air of Davos, where the world’s self-appointed architects of destiny gather to swap platitudes and carbon offsets, one might expect a certain degree of coordination regarding the planet's most bloated athletic spectacle. Yet, Kirsty Coventry, the International Olympic Committee’s primary liaison to the tangible world, has confirmed that she has yet to engage in a formal conversation with Donald Trump regarding the Los Angeles 2028 Games. It is a masterclass in bureaucratic avoidance, a choreographed dance on the edge of a geopolitical volcano. While the Olympic flame is traditionally meant to symbolize peace and the fraternity of nations, the current American administration seems more interested in using it to facilitate the fire-sale of sovereign territories—starting, apparently, with Greenland.

To describe the start of 2026 as 'turbulent' is to describe the fall of Rome as a minor zoning dispute. Between threats to annex the world’s largest island for its mid-century modern real estate potential and the casual ousting of the Venezuelan leadership, the American President has been understandably preoccupied. One can hardly blame Coventry for her silence; one does not simply walk into the Oval Office to discuss the logistics of the 100-meter butterfly when the inhabitant is busy redrawing the map of the Arctic Circle. The IOC’s strategy here is as transparent as it is pathetic: if you do not look directly at the sun, perhaps you can pretend it isn’t currently vaporizing the atmosphere.

Instead of the Commander-in-Chief, the Olympic organizers will meet with Vice-President JD Vance. It is the diplomatic equivalent of being told the head surgeon is unavailable and you will instead be seen by a man who has recently finished a particularly intense podcast on the merits of stoicism. Vance, the dutiful buffer, will provide the IOC with the necessary veneer of governmental cooperation without the inconvenient risk of being told that the Olympic Village is being relocated to a newly acquired suburb of Nuuk. This is the new world order: a series of mid-level managers holding umbrellas over their heads while the giants above them engage in a game of global Jenga.

I find a certain grim joy in deconstructing the IOC’s insistence on 'steering clear' of global politics. It is a performance of neutrality that borders on the pathological. The Olympics have always been a political weapon, a stage for soft power where the host nation can mask its domestic decay with a layer of fresh white paint and a few thousand security cameras. To pretend that planning an event in Los Angeles—amidst a trade war with Europe and a complete destabilization of the South American continent—is a purely technical exercise is a lie so profound it deserves its own gold medal. Coventry is not 'steering clear' of politics; she is desperately trying to keep the IOC’s head below the parapet while the arrows of American unpredictability fly overhead.

We must consider the historical parallels, though they are too depressing for the average sports commentator to digest. We have seen this institutional cowardice before, where global bodies pretend that the 'spirit of sport' exists in a vacuum, isolated from the fact that the host nation is currently treating international law like a suggestion box. The IOC would likely attempt to hold a rhythmic gymnastics qualifier in the middle of a naval blockade if the broadcast rights were sufficiently lucrative. Their commitment to 'neutrality' is merely a euphemism for their commitment to the bottom line, packaged in the sophisticated language of Swiss diplomacy.

As we look toward 2028, the absurdity only deepens. We are witnessing the slow-motion collision of two of the world's most delusional entities: an Olympic committee that believes it is above history, and an American administration that believes it is the only author of it. While Trump threatens to upend the global trade system—presumably to ensure that Olympic souvenirs are exclusively manufactured in state-sponsored factories—the IOC sits in its glass palace in Lausanne, nodding politely at JD Vance and checking their watches. It is the banality of the bureaucratic process meeting the theatricality of the absurd.

Ultimately, Coventry’s admission is the only honest thing to come out of this entire charade. She hasn't spoken to the President because there is nothing to say. When the host of your party is busy setting fire to the neighbors' houses and demanding to buy their lawns, you don't ask him where he wants the ice sculptures. You talk to his assistant, you sign the insurance waivers, and you pray that by the time 2028 rolls around, the city of Los Angeles hasn't been traded for a fleet of icebreakers and a golf course in the permafrost. It is a tragedy in three acts, and we are all stuck in the front row, forced to clap as the theater burns down around us.