Tell a sports-loving kid from Maple Street that he would someday cover a dozen Olympic Games and he may have been disappointed that he never competed in one.

I’m not sure what event I thought I might be good at, but when you’re young, anything seems possible. Maybe I would skate as fast as Eric Heiden, swim like Mark Spitz or conquer the slopes like Jean-Claude Killy. Never mind that I couldn’t do any of those things then and can barely do them now.

The Cornwall town pool has yet to produce an Olympic swimmer, nor has the old hill at the hospital produced any ski racers of note.

Bonnie Blair, however, a speed skating gold medalist, was born in Cornwall, but it’s unclear whether she ever skated at Ring’s Pond before moving away as a toddler.

I, on the other hand, did skate there and have a small scar on my leg from an afternoon of pond hockey.

But being able to go to an Olympic event of my choosing for the past quarter century has to rank as No. 1 in the history of consolation prizes.

And if that weren’t enough, I got to share it all with you on this blog.

The blog began, not at my first Games, in Salt Lake City, but at my second, in Turin, in 2006. So it seems fitting that we retire the blog after another Italian Winter Games.

My plan is that I’ll retire before the L.A. torch is lit, but before we extinguish this flame, here are some memories from my 12 Olympic Games.

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2002, Salt Lake City

My first Olympic credential got me into exactly one place: the media center. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to be in that sea of indistinguishable white-walled offices, but I watched all the events on TV just as I did as a kid.

The highlight, of course, was that my nieces Amy and Tracy came too, and spent a week seeing more live events than I did!

I did buy a ticket to the men’s downhill, but the best part of that event was hearing Bill Pennington, our ski writer, tell the story of how when he got to his modest motel room in the mountains, it had no door. And not like it didn’t have a closet door or something, the door separating his room from the parking lot was missing!

He thought it best to tell the man in the motel office about it, who was quick to remedy the situation: He took a front door from another room off its hinges and gave it to Bill.

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2006, Turin

Turin was my first real credential. It said “All,” meaning I was permitted into all the events. Just flash my credential and I was in!

10-year-old me would have been excited. 47-year-old me was extremely excited.

Long track speed skating was conveniently next door to the media center, so every free moment I had, I wandered over to see some skating, just because I could. I’ve been hooked on it ever since. The sound of the skates alone is mesmerizing.

On a less thrilling note, word got out in our little Times office that I didn’t have a shower in my room, but only a bathtub. Kristen, our Olympics editor, wondered aloud in the room full of Times’ people if I was taking a bubble bath every night and whether there were rubber duckies involved?

I didn’t soon live that down, but thankfully, I outlasted everyone at The Times who heard that story. But my family still gets me the occasional rubber duck as a gift. Anne bought me this Swiss skier version when we were in Grindelwald last week.

What would later become the Eat at Joe’s Blog started here in Italy as an email chain called, Giuseppe’s Giornale, that got passed along to an ever-increasing group of family and friends. Those dispatches are lost to the ether, but their spirit lived on.

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2008, Beijing

I saw the finish of the men’s bicycle road race at the Great Wall. I was in the stadium when Usain Bolt made the Bird’s Nest shake. I saw my share of Michael Phelps’s eight gold medals. Items I didn’t know were on my bucket list but should’ve been.

I definitely had my favorite meal here, at a small, out-of-the-way Sichuan restaurant in a hutong — a narrow, historic alleyway. We made it just before closing and were the only ones there. The waiter asked if we wanted to order from the menu or just let the chef cook what he wanted. We chose the latter.

I remember a deep-fried whole fish swimming in a Sichuan pepper sauce that we all battled over. And I recall what I can only describe as lamb tacos, more for their shape than their texture.

Google tells me I had this:

Sichuan ground lamb in soft bread (often served as Xi’an-style cumin lamb pitas or roujiamo) features savory, stir-fried lamb packed with cumin, peppercorns, garlic, and chilies stuffed into a warm, soft flatbread. The bread acts as a vessel to soak up the intense, aromatic juices.

Yes Google, yes it does!

Back at the pool, I also saw then-President Bush (the younger) saunter in with his secret service, only to yell across the pool to friend of the blog, NYT White House photographer, and the only person on staff who has been to more Olympics than I have, Doug Mills. As the race was nearing its start, Bush stood from the front row, waved his arm high across the lanes of water, and said, in earshot of everyone, “Hey Millsy!”

Who doesn’t love Doug Mills?

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2010, Vancouver

Anne makes her first appearance at the Olympics and is quickly adopted, some might say kidnapped, by an orange-clad gang of drunken Netherlands speed-skating fans.

She and I ventured into the hills to see biathlon, an Anne favorite, but it was long-track speed skating that became the most memorable, both for its fanbase and for an unforgettable moment in the men’s 10,000-meter final.

The race is mano a mano for 25 laps, so many laps that each skater’s coach is strategically positioned along the ice to remind their skater when to change lanes in case they lose track.

Sven Kramer, the Dutchman who was considered the greatest distance skater of his generation, was ahead with eight laps to go. The orange faithful sensed gold and were in full-throated support of their man. Anne and I were sitting among them, caught up in the moment.

Then, suddenly, gasps and a hush. Kramer’s coach had signaled for him to take the inside lane. Kramer hesitated slightly, but followed orders.

But Kramer’s coach was wrong. It was the coach who had lost track. It was not Kramer’s turn on the inside lane. Kramer was disqualified.

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2012, London

Amy returned as a spectator, Leah was an Olympic volunteer and I spent a night in the ER.

An unexpectedly hot and sunny week in London leading into the Games caught me a bit off guard. Lugging around my backpack, heavy with photo equipment, I made my way from venue to venue, getting my bearings, scouting photo positions and schmoozing with venue managers. Also, not drinking enough water.

I wasn’t expecting to sweat so much in London and after attending the Opening Ceremony, it took its toll. Sitting in our Olympic office with our editor, Andy Das, my stomach started to turn and my vision was fading to black. “Um, Andy, I’m not feeling so well. I might be dehydrated.”

My pleas to just get in a cab and go to the nearest ER were roundly denied by both Andy and the EMTs who carted me out on a stretcher through the middle of the Media Center.

When I awoke the next morning in an ER bed, Andy was there next to me, having spent the night watching over me as a saline solution was dripped into me.

One of the best, that Andy!

I was the first on Maple Street to meet Leah’s soon-to-be husband, Andrew. Even before her family did!

Leah, from the hood, was an Olympic volunteer, stationed along the cycling road race. She plans to volunteer again at the LA Games. They’ll be lucky to have her!

Amy made her way to the top tourist spots in London and to a few Olympic events as well. Both she and Leah guest blogged while they were there and Amy partied with the freshly minted, gold medal-winning USA rowing eights! She’s seen here with Meghan Musnicki.

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2014, Sochi, Russia

There was plenty of fodder for the blog at this one. In fact, the blog may have hit its peak at the Sochi Games.

It all started the year before, when John Branch, James Hill and I made our way there on a bit of a story recon mission.

There was the delightful ex-con taxi driver who nearly killed James and me on a foggy night when he turned too soon for a bridge. The brakes got slammed, Russian curse words were flying from both James and the driver, and we skidded to a stop just inches from the roaring river. My reward was that he charged me twice as much as we agreed upon when we made it to the top of the mountain alive. James, from our Moscow bureau, told me I should “pay the man”, followed by, “Joe, welcome to Russia.”

There was Sahib, our Azerbaijani fixer for the week. He was just learning English and practicing the new phrase he had learned, “Oh my god!” that quickly turned into, “Oh my god, Joe.”

The following year was just as eventful:

My friend from the USOC took a gondola to the top of the mountain late on the night he arrived, only to find out that the hotel he booked there, the one he had paid for in full, had never been built.

There was my own hotel, with its dark hallways and hooded night watchman(?) and very, very few other guests! The only signs of life there were the periodic gifts left by the never-seen cleaning person.

For the blog, and only for the blog, I followed a Belarusian man to see his friend’s beautiful hotel with a “perfect view of the ski jump.” I ended up in the basement of that hotel drinking what they called “plum wine,” aka moonshine. My Czech relatives call it Slivovitz. I call it Kerosene. I returned safely to my colleagues with the rest of the bottle — Bottle 13. You can read all about it here.

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2016, Rio

From a distance, Rio is the most spectacularly scenic of the host cities. Nothing is even a close second. Mother Nature built this place for herself, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen places where mountains meet the sea, but nothing matches Rio.

Get closer, though, and Rio’s grit comes into relief: the poverty, the gangs, the rampant corruption.

The year before the Games, I was on a reporting trip there to look into what the government was doing to clean up the waters that the marathon swimmers would be competing in. It’s where I had my first helicopter ride, to film where the sewage-laden streams spilled into the sewage-laden rivers that filled the sewage-laden bay — site of the competition.

We were flying over a favela, a gang-run slum, when I asked the pilot if we could fly a little lower. “This is as low as we go,” he told me. “We have to stay out of range of their guns. If they think we’re the police, they’ll shoot at us.”

A year later, Simone Biles stole the show, and Bolt and Phelps were still winning gold.

There are media transport buses that still haven’t come, but there is meat there to die for.

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2018, Pyeongchang, South Korea

My Uncle Don fought in the Korean War. When I told him that’s where I’d be going for the next Olympics, he told me to bring lots of warm clothes. I assured him I would, but deep down I wasn’t too worried. Fabric technology had come a long way since the 50s. I was sure I would be fine.

I’m here to tell you not to ever doubt my Uncle Don. Pyeongchang is an ice tray inside a freezer inside an iceberg. Something about the winds coming down from Siberia.

That Doug Mills fella and I hopped on the bus to the men’s downhill very early one morning, where we were met with 60 mph winds and minus-30 degree windchills. Thankfully, the race was postponed that day.

When the Alpine ski races finally got underway, the ski racers covered their faces with white athletic tape to keep from getting frostbite.

But Korean food knows how to warm the soul. Deep bowls of hot, brothy goodness could be found everywhere. If you haven’t been to a Korean Hot Pot restaurant, or haven’t been in a while, find yourself one and go on a cold day. You won’t be sorry.

On the other hand, don’t go with anyone named Chang Lee, our Korean-born photographer.

Here is an excerpt from John Branch’s Facebook post after a meal with Chang:

Late night eats with Chang W. Lee, who knows his way around live fish and octopus in Korea. The nerves in the octopus keep it moving for a while after it’s chopped up; if you don’t chew quickly, it suctions to your cheeks. That pretty sliced sushi is blowfish, which we just saw in the tank a few minutes before; parts of it can kill you, of course, but these people say they’re licensed (if not, goodbye!). Orange stuff is sea squirt, which tastes as delicious as its name. Too much other stuff to picture.”

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2020(1), Tokyo

Restrictions were many and fans were few in Tokyo. It was the first of two Covid Olympic Games. They had been postponed a year and when we finally got there, much of the city was shut down.

It was weird and sad to have no fans, but sadder still was having lost three friends of the blog: Anne’s mother, Mildred, who had latched onto Sahib’s phrase of “Oh my god, Joe.; My brother-in-law Ed, whose passion for fishing in Maine I won’t soon forget; and my sister Mary, who lit up this blog with her searing wit in the comments section. Jim Luttrell, a colleague of mine and fan of Mary’s pokes at me, said before I left for Milan, “I miss Mary.” We all do Jim.

A post about the three of them is here

Two very popular posts, by guest blogger Larry, recount a man at his first rodeo, and a man sure his first rodeo would be cut short.

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2022, Beijing

My first Beijing Olympics ranks among my favorites for the reasons I mentioned earlier and for so much more, but the Winter Games there rank dead last. The restrictions imposed in Tokyo were quaint compared with China, which, having been blamed by the world for Covid, ratcheted up the lockdown.

Our hotel was barricaded with high wooden fences and razor wire. We were all locked inside the “clean zone,” which constituted the venues, the media center and the media hotels — all connected by buses that also never left the zone. On the bright side, we didn’t have to constantly go through security at every venue like we do at all the other Games. Once you were securely in when you got there, there was no leaving.

We were screened for Covid every morning by haz-mat clad individuals who stuffed the swabs so far into our noses we were sure it punctured our frontal lobes.

But they did greet us on Valentine’s Day with a heart made of vials.

Our food options were few, as you might imagine, so the game was to find the media hotel with the best meals.

Dawn Cai, our Chinese-born colleague, navigated the menus for us and also found us the hotel with the best Peking duck. That was a gastronomic highlight.

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2024, Paris

It was a welcome return to normalcy, with Parisians and fans from around the world cramming the events. Paris put on a show, from it’s soggy Opening Ceremony on boats down the Seine to beach volleyball in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower to horse jumping at Versailles. It was a spectacle for the eyes and ears, and very high on my list of faves.

Snoop showed me where Door O was.

I overtook the field in Lane 9.

And I have plans for some of the photos I took at Paris’s inspired venues.

But for me, these will be the Michael O’Neil Games. Michael, you may remember, spent his last morning in Paris tracking down the best gluten-free croissants in the city after hearing they were my favorite thing to eat before I was told, “No more gluten”. He returned, sweaty and victorious, with a bag full of still-warm, delicious pastries. The best GF ones I’ve ever tasted.

Plans were made: Michael and Anne would come to Milan and see the sights, and maybe find more gluten-free pastries for me, while Michael’s wife, Terri Ann, and I worked. We’d all meet for dinner. We’d have a blast!

But I’m heartbroken to tell you that we unexpectedly lost Michael last fall.

The man had a heart as big as Ireland, and a kindness and wit to match. Judging from the size of the crowd at his wake and funeral, he touched nearly everyone in New York City and beyond.

His son, Liam, is tall and handsome and full of all of Michael’s kindness, and is hard at work making his way through Dartmouth. I wish you all could meet him.

Terri Ann, in true Terri Ann form, showed up at my hotel in Milan with fresh gluten free pastries and cookies. “Have to keep up the tradition,” she said.

Let’s all send a virtual hug from this blog to Terri Ann and Liam.

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2026, Milan

I didn’t sleep on a church pew in Cortina and I didn’t squish the poor bull’s privates.

But I did see Alysa Liu win figure skating gold, which will go down as one of my all-time Olympic moments. And Anne came for her second Games — more speed skating and all.

I bought what may be my silliest and favorite Olympic souvenir: an Alessi tea kettle in the shape of a curling stone.

I saw Breezy Johnson win gold in the women’s downhill, with the Alps as a stunning backdrop. Another photo I have plans for. It was the one day when I thought, “Can I really give this up?”

There are a thousand more memories than I’ve listed here, and I know how lucky that kid from Maple Street was to have accumulated them.

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Here are some photos from our time in Milan and from the week we spent in the Swiss Alps.

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