WEEKENDER Beyond the podium: Embracing true diversity in Korean sports

NAGOYA, Japan — When the Korean men’s 3x3 basketball team secured a historic Asian Games gold medal here last week, the celebrations back home were muted. That same quiet greeted the nation’s canoe sprint athletes as they paddled their way to the podium. There was only one Asian Games event for that time slot that made it to viewers through the major broadcast television networks in Seoul: early-round baseball.

The Asian Games, promoted with grand “Imagine One Asia” banners, are designed to project unity. But for Korea, the competition has exposed a strict, deeply unequal domestic sports culture — one that divides far more than it unites, valuing TV ratings and outdated labels over athletic skill.

The broadcast blackout was not a deliberate affront, but a reflection of a TV industry tied to profit. Just months ago, major broadcast networks championing the “public’s right to watch” criticized cable channel JTBC for securing exclusive rights to show the World Cup and the Winter Olympics. However, when faced with the cold reality of television ratings, those same networks naturally turned toward the guaranteed numbers of a baseball game, leaving great moments in lesser-known sports completely ignored.

The divide dates back to the 1980s, when Korea’s military dictatorship used the “3S” policy — screen, sex and sports — to distract a frustrated public and try to force a sense of national pride. Sports were treated as a simple tool where winning was the only thing that mattered.

Decades later, that results-only mindset remains. For athletes in less popular sports, excellence alone is rarely enough to earn respect. When Lee Jun-seok won a historic gold in teqball thanks to a flawless strategy, the media largely ignored his actual skill. Driven by public hunger for drama, coverage focused instead on his decision to leave a steady corporate job to concentrate on the sport. The story demanded a sad tale of sacrifice to validate his medal, brushing over his intensive training. It is a culture that requires a tragic backstory while quietly downplaying hard work.

This mindset weighs equally heavily on famous athletes. There is a tiring habit of framing every men’s medal race as a desperate attempt to win a military service exemption, focusing on a legal shortcut while skipping over a lifetime of discipline. The absurdity of this was clearly shown recently when a reporter asked Lee Young-jun, a forward for the national football team who had already finished his military duty, why he was still playing so hard. Lee delivered a firm reply: “I play to win.” Tying a young athlete’s effort strictly to his draft status is an insult to the sport itself.

The public’s support is just as selective. In 2019, South Koreans expressed anger on a national level when the men’s football team played a World Cup qualifier in an empty stadium in Pyongyang. But for women athletes, competing in empty arenas is everyday life. Although the national women’s basketball and handball teams captured gold medals at the current Asian Games, they are accustomed to returning home to play before empty seats. The anger over empty stadiums, it seems, is saved only for the most popular of men's sports.

This professional bias was clearly seen when Korea’s highly paid baseball stars lost to a Japanese squad made up of industrial-league players — factory workers and office clerks who practice after their shifts end. Rather than respecting their grit, the Korean public reacted with anger. The backlash shows how athletic worth is directly tied to high salaries, treating professional sports as an exclusive club rather than a pure test of skill.

Most damagingly, this exclusivity goes beyond paychecks and bleeds into issues of race. Until very recently, it was normal in Korean sports leagues to refer to foreign players as “yongbyeong” — literally, “mercenaries.” That closed-off mindset continues today. When sprinters like Biwesa Daniel Gasama or athletes like Namadi Joel-jin are introduced to the public, labels are used as barriers. They are introduced as “naturalized” or “mixed-race,” rather than simply Korean. The double standard is clear. When Son Heung-min steps onto a pitch in England, the British public does not brand him with outsider labels; he is simply a brilliant footballer. Yet at home, the outdated idea of ethnic homogeneity maintains a strong grip on the public imagination. These athletes sweat and bleed under the Korean flag; in a truly inclusive culture, there are no asterisks next to a nationality.

The fault does not lie only with the athletes who play popular men’s sports or with the fans who have long turned to them for comfort and unity during hard times. Broadcasters, too, are bound by the pressures of profit. The true issue is a deep-rooted system that feeds the mainstream, creating a closed loop that makes it impossible for diverse, local sports to grow in the public mind.

If sports are meant to heal social divides, society must broaden its view of athletic value. The most beautiful proof of this at these Games did not happen on a baseball diamond, but inside the gymnastics arena. Gymnastics is, by its nature, a sport of physical storytelling. Because athletes translate their raw emotions into physical action, it is a sport where true, individual diversity naturally takes center stage. During the women’s team competition, athletes performed very different routines, each bringing a unique, personal art to the floor.

The crowd responded in kind. Ignoring the national flags on the scoreboards, the audience erupted in real applause for the pure effort of every single gymnast. It was a brief, clear look at what sports can be when a culture drops its biases.

On Tuesday morning in Nagoya, even with the Asian Games in full swing, the front pages of the local sports papers looked exactly as they always do: filled with news of regional professional baseball teams. For the people of this city, the daily standings of the Chunichi Dragons matter more than the gold medals of the Games. It was not a rejection of the international competition, but quiet proof of a mature sports culture — one where local passions and daily fandoms are not simply swallowed whole by the loud excitement of national events.

That steady, daily loyalty to the sport itself, independent of national glory, is the true vision of a diverse future for Korea. It is the real path toward genuine sportsmanship — a culture that respects human effort and dignity long before the final medal tally is complete.