A Philadelphian in Tokyo is ready for an Olympics unlike any other

Dan Orlowitz, a Philadelphia native, is a sports writer for The Japan Times.

If Philadelphia sports fans can empathize with one emotion, it is the unyielding heartbreak of promises unfulfilled, expectations shattered, and dreams deferred, all of it ending with a magic phrase: “Maybe next year.”

After an unprecedented delay caused by a global pandemic that is still far from under control, “next year” has arrived for the Tokyo Olympics. And as dejected sponsors scrap plans, merchandise gathers dust on shelves, and organizers prepare the final touches of an opening ceremony behind closed doors at the cavernous National Stadium, it is increasingly apparent that they are still not the Games we were promised. Nor will they ever be.

What was planned as the grand unveiling of a rejuvenated Japan that is open to all and still capable of carrying its weight as the world’s third-largest economy has turned into a five-ringed circus of damage mitigation. Athletes who have spent years training for the Games and faced the additional burden of a one-year delay will have to live and perform in a bubble without fellow countrymen or even family members cheering them on.

Members of the media, faced with mountains of byzantine regulations, have been given the task of filling thousands of column inches and broadcast hours without the luxury of being allowed to speak face-to-face with athletes or coaches.

As for fans, you’ll find more at a rainy Citizens Bank Park in September. Japan’s borders have not been open to visitors since the start of the pandemic, and local anxiety — fueled by at-times bombastic media reports raising the specter of each new foreign entrant as a potential vector for a dangerous new strain — forced organizers in March to officially ban overseas fans.

All that was left to do was wait and hope that cases in the Tokyo area would fall, either through a vaccination effort that was slow off the starting block but built up speed, or the willingness of the public to avoid activities such as drinking and maskless socializing that government and medical officials have deemed risky.

On July 8, time ran out, and Tokyo 2020 closed off venues in the greater Tokyo area, allowing a small handful of minor venues further afield to admit fans based on their local municipalities’ guidance. The rare fans at those few venues, including Miyagi Stadium near the Miyagi Prefecture city of Rifu, will go down in history as the only ticketed attendees to witness what is becoming known by some media outlets as the “Silent Olympics.”

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When Japan’s capital beat out Istanbul and Madrid eight years ago for 2020′s hosting rights, it was a long-awaited moment of redemption. The moment then-IOC president Jacques Rogge held up that fabled piece of card stock, Tokyo’s bungled bid for 2016 — awarded to Rio de Janeiro when the Japanese metropolis’ final presentation fell flat despite superior technical scores — became a thing of the past.

So, too, did the 2002 FIFA World Cup, which saw Japan forced into a co-hosting arrangement with sporting and geopolitical rival South Korea at the last moment of the bid process.

The lead-up, like that of any other major event, had its share of issues. Award-winning architect Zaha Hadid’s plans for the new National Stadium were controversially scrapped over costs in 2015, while months later a plagiarism row forced the Games to scrap their logos and come up with a fresh rebrand. The event’s biggest scandal came just five months ago when former organizing committee president Yoshiro Mori resigned after his sexist comments resulted in international backlash and a wave of volunteer resignations.

While the headlines will focus on the financial losses Japan will suffer from these Olympics — which are currently budgeted at about $16 billion, a number all but guaranteed to rise when the final tally is completed — the biggest loss could end up being the country’s sterling reputation as a top travel destination.

The importance Japan places on its greatest soft power generator could be seen in Tokyo’s successful presentation in Buenos Aires, when a now-famous speech by French-Japanese television presenter Christel Takigawa highlighted the word omotenashi. Often translated as “hospitality,” it carries a much deeper meaning within Japanese culture: to anticipate and act on the needs of others through one’s conduct, language and presentation.

In other words, if a friendly greeting from your local Wawa cashier is basic algebra, then omotenashi might as well be astrophysics.

That omotenashi ethos has long been a central pillar of Japan’s tourism industry, which rebounded following the Great East Japan Earthquake of 2011, growing from 8.36 million visitors in 2012 to nearly 32 million by 2019. English-language reservation services, public Wi-Fi, and vegetarian-friendly menu options, all nearly impossible to find a decade ago, are now commonplace. The wildly successful 2019 Rugby World Cup and its 242,000 international visitors were seen as a dry run for the Tokyo Olympics, which had the potential to deliver a historic spectacle.

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Now, omotenashi seems like nothing more than wishful thinking. Without tourists, Tokyo’s busiest districts are quieter during the day, and 8 p.m. curfews leave some areas eerily empty at night as restaurants and bars wage frequent battles with the metropolitan government over restrictions to alcohol sales.

Closed borders have forced would-be immigrants, including thousands of English teachers, students, and tech workers, into a constant state of limbo. Foreign residents have faced discrimination, and many have not visited their home countries since the start of the pandemic, celebrating holidays and mourning funerals via Zoom.

It’s a grim picture, and yet there are few developed nations safer than Japan, which has experienced a fatality rate of just 118.74 deaths per million compared to the United States’ 1,847. The medical system has bent but not broken, and severe cases are down despite the spread of the Delta variant among those who haven’t yet been vaccinated.

How has the country pulled that off when bureaucratic red tape and other logistical concerns prevented it from opening vaccinations to the general public until April?

It’s all about the masks.

Like elsewhere in Asia, face masks are commonplace in Japan during allergy, cold, and flu seasons, and the public readily accepts them as necessities along with properly ventilated spaces and physical distancing.

Nobody has taken to those guidelines more eagerly than sports fans, who have been back in the stands since last July in maximum crowds ranging from 5,000 to 50% of a venue’s capacity. They’ve also accepted a litany of other rules, including one that Philadelphians used to regular serenades of “Fly, Eagles, Fly” would surely never accept: a total ban on chants and songs to reduce the risk of virus-carrying particles.

Japan’s sporting bodies have taken great pains to prove their rules have worked. Local studies have shown that a combination of masks, disinfectants, and physical distancing have been capable of all but eliminating COVID-19 risk from outdoor venues, giving Olympic organizers the confidence to plan for limited crowds as recently as late June.

But data on CO2 levels and crowd density could not outrun the rapidly proliferating Delta variant before Tokyo’s fourth state of emergency, declared by the government on July 8, ensured that millions of fans with golden tickets would instead be receiving refunds.

While officials had originally planned to sell nearly 10 million tickets across the event’s 33 disciplines, now the only people in the venues — besides operational staff and the usual assortment of VIPs allowed to enter the country as members of the “Olympic Family” — are thousands of athletes and journalists, for whom what is usually a dream assignment has turned into nervous tedium.

Anyone entering the country for the Olympics has agreed to stay within a protective bubble consisting of their lodgings and their training ground or competition venue for the duration of their stay. Besides the sort of regular PCR testing seen at other major sporting events held in the last 18 months, participants are also being tracked through multiple smartphone applications.

Athletes, who must leave Japan shortly after the conclusion of their events, could risk disqualification if they’re caught violating the sanctity of the bubble, a prospect that seems all too likely in the age of social media. Inside, fraternization outside one’s team is strongly discouraged, and even the Olympic Village’s infamous condoms will only be distributed to athletes at the time of their departure.

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Foreign media covering the Games have been compelled to submit action plans detailing their activities, and Olympic minister Tamayo Marukawa has publicly stated that anyone straying off the path could face revocation of their credentials or even deportation. Major U.S. news outlets have protested rules forbidding journalists who have not cleared quarantine from “on the street” newsgathering, but organizers have not budged.

At this stage, all but the most hardcore of advocates have run out of optimism, and anti-Olympic activists will forever be able to point to 2020 as an example of all that is wrong with the current state of the Olympic movement. The Tokyo Games have become in the minds of many a tainted chalice, all but guaranteed to leave an indelible stain on anyone forced to take a drink.

But these Games, for better or for worse, will go on. And the people of Japan, though disillusioned and tired, will still watch in the hopes of even the briefest moments of catharsis.

They will be spoiled for choice among the country’s largest-ever delegation of 583 athletes, all of whom will carry the pride of the host nation even if they also carry the weight of 2020′s invisible asterisk.

Swimmer Rikako Ikee, the 2018 Asian Games MVP whose Tokyo dreams seemed all but extinguished when she announced her leukemia diagnosis in early 2019, could complete her extraordinary comeback story with a gold medal when she competes in the 4x100-meter medley relay.

Three-time Grand Slam champion Naomi Osaka and Washington Wizards power forward Rui Hachimura, both of whom have Black fathers, are at the vanguard of a group of athletes redefining what it means to be Japanese, providing inspiration to a generation of multiethnic children who can now dream of wearing the Hinomaru over their hearts.

Reigning men’s world No. 1 badminton player Kento Momota will be looking for redemption after visits to an illegal casino saw him suspended ahead of Rio, while Ayumu Hirano, a snowboarding silver medalist in Pyeongchang and Sochi, could join the rare class of athletes who have reached the podium in both summer and winter when skateboarding makes its Olympic debut.

And it’s all but guaranteed that each competing nation will have its own similar fairy tales, which will still be seen by fans from around the world — even if only through a screen.

The legacy of Tokyo 2020 will be written by the many people with opinions on the matter in the months and years to come. But for these next 16 days, the competitors will have their say. These aren’t the Games they were promised nor the Games they deserve. But, as with anything on the field of play, it’s not about waiting for the best conditions but seizing your opportunity when it comes.

That opportunity is here for about 11,000 of the world’s best athletes.

And now, after months of uncertainty, at least we have a moment to sit back and watch.