Ah, the X Games. Once the cultural equivalent of a flaming jet ski doing a backflip over the Grand Canyon, now more like an elderly skateboarder slowly rolling down a wheelchair ramp while muttering something about “the good ol’ days.”
Launched in 1995, the X Games didn’t just arrive they exploded onto the scene like a can of Monster Energy tossed into a bonfire. It was loud, brash, glorious, and for a brief moment, cooler than a snowboarding unicorn riding a BMX bike made of Red Bull cans. It gave birth to action sports legends: Tony Hawk, Mat Hoffman, Dave Mirra, Travis Pastrana household names, assuming your household included a halfpipe and smelled vaguely of sweat, hope, and axle grease.
Back then, sponsorships weren’t handed out they were rained from the heavens. Six figures for a sticker placement! That’s right—companies paid more to be on a helmet than most people earned for selling their soul, dignity, and half their furniture. The sports themselves, skateboarding, BMX, motocross, snowboarding weren’t just hobbies; they were societal game changers. They made rebellion look productive.
But alas, like a poorly waxed skateboard on a gravel path, things went downhill.
Over time, the corporations realized that pouring millions into a sport where teenagers yell “SELL OUT” for using a branded water bottle might not be the wisest investment. The free events became paywalled palaces. The anti-establishment spirit was neatly folded and ironed into Olympic regulation uniforms.
Yes, the Olympics. That ancient, ring-obsessed monolith realized that no one under 40 gives a fig about shot put or synchronized walking. So they kidnapped action sports, slapped them with rules, drug tests, and mandatory leotards, and told the pioneers: “Join us… or be cancelled by our marketing department.”
ESPN, once the proud parent of this high-octane circus, sold off the X Games like a disinterested stepdad auctioning off his ex-wife’s jet ski. And now, the event exists as a fragmented, microtransaction heavy theme park of its former self.
Want to sit near the ramp? That’s extra. Want shade? That’s $80. Want to use a porta-potty that doesn’t smell like failure? That’s the platinum tier. Of course, most people aren’t buying the upgrades, so they’re handed out like free mints at a dentist’s office just to make the stands look full. Illusion of popularity? Check.
Meanwhile, the number of competing athletes has shrunk like a cotton T-shirt in a hot wash. No open qualifiers. No rags-to-riches stories. Just the top tier, and when a couple of those precious superstars crash in practice, the entire schedule does the cha-cha to accommodate their nap time. Sorry, we meant “favorable wind conditions.”
And what’s the big showcase now? Freestyle motocross.
Yes, FMX where the riders launch into the sky and perform mid-air surgeries on their own spleens before landing. Incredible? Absolutely. Aspirational? Not unless your toddler has access to a dirt bike, a launch ramp, and a team of orthopedic surgeons on standby.
Gone are the days when a scrappy kid with a skateboard and a dream could bust a trick and wind up on a cereal box. These days, the top 8 athletes in many events are still working full-time jobs just to afford the travel, gear, and nachos required to compete. It’s less “living the dream” and more “crowdfunding the rental car.”
And who’s in the audience? Youthful rebels hungry for glory?
Nope. Mostly parents and grandparents nostalgia tourists in cargo shorts, here to squint into the sun and whisper, “I remember when this meant something.” Attending the X Games now feels a bit like visiting the ruins of an ancient temple where they used to sacrifice conformity to the gods of adrenaline. The echoes of Tony Hawk’s 900 bounce off the distant walls like sacred hymns.
So, is the X Games dying?
Not exactly. It’s still twitching. Still broadcasting. But it’s no longer kicking down cultural doors. It’s politely knocking, asking if anyone still cares. And when no one answers, it quietly walks away and checks the breeze for optimal tailwinds