For years, my morning routine has been the same—up at 6:00, the first 15 minutes spent in silence, inhaling consecutive cups of strong coffee. It’s not crucial; it’s more important than that. Then, with trepedation, I turn on the sports highlights from the night prior. Depending on the season, the scores of any game involving my cherished teams—the Montreal Canadiens and the Toronto Blue Jays—set the tone for the day.

This is not rational. I know that the result of a game played far away has no real bearing on my responsibilities. And yet, like millions of others, I let sport quietly shape my emotional weather. That alone explains much of its value. Sport gives pressure somewhere to go. It offers a release that isn’t work, family obligation, or the persistent hum of adult stress.

At its best, sport is a pressure valve with rules. The clock expires. The game ends. There is a winner, a loser, and then life resumes. In a world where so many problems feel endless and unresolved, sport offers something contained. You are allowed to care deeply, react honestly, and then move on.

That release matters even more for children. At its finest, sport is designed for kids of all ages and abilities. Its original purpose is almost offensively simple: get kids moving, playing, and connected. Promote active lifestyles. Build confidence, coordination, and belonging. For some children, sport is also something quieter and more profound—a refuge. A rink, field, or court can become a place to set aside the bickering, tension, and condescension waiting at home. For an hour, the noise fades. For a minute, they are not the kid navigating adult moods or household stress. They are the one hitting the winning home run. They are free.

Somewhere along the way, we complicated this. Youth sport, in too many cases, has become an outlet for adult frustration rather than childhood joy. Parents arrive armed with expectations, convinced that “the game” is their child’s birthright. Playing time becomes entitlement. Development becomes demand. And other kids—just kids—become obstacles rather than teammates.

This is where sport loses its way. When adults vent their anxieties from the sidelines, the lesson shifts. Fun becomes conditional. Effort is no longer enough. The car ride home turns into a post-game analysis no one requested. The irony is brutal: the very thing that helps adults manage stress becomes a source of it for children.

My childhood idol, the late Ken Dryden, once wrote about hockey as a lesson in responsibility, space, and trust—not just stopping pucks. Those lessons disappear when sport becomes transactional, when enjoyment is replaced by pressure, and when adults forget that the game does not belong to them.

And yet, sport still holds extraordinary power to unite us. In an Olympic year, that power becomes unmistakable. For many years, the Olympics were preserved—at least in spirit—for non-professionals. Before endorsements, social media followings, and the almighty dollar became the be-all and end-all, we watched athletes we might only ever hear of briefly. The boxer whose name we forgot by the next cycle. The Australian swimmer slicing through the water. The Canadian diver piercing the surface with impossible precision. The Jamaican runner on golden feet, making speed look effortless.

They were not brands. They were moments. And for a few weeks, they belonged to all of us.Still, the most meaningful version of sport rarely involves medals or broadcasts. Sometimes it’s just a kid alone in a backyard, counting down imaginary seconds, taking a last shot, and believing—briefly—that it matters enormously. No scouts. No contracts. No applause. Just play.

Those moments are fleeting. They always have been. But they are also the point. Sport endures not because it produces champions, but because, when we protect its simplest purpose, it gives people—especially kids—a place to move, escape, belong, and feel heroic, if only for a few precious moments.