2026 Asian Games close in Nagoya: flag handed to Doha and a proposal to shift the Asiad cycle to odd years

On the evening of October 4, as the flag of the Olympic Council of Asia (OCA) slowly descended under the golden lights of Nagoya Stadium, the stands did not erupt into the jubilant applause typical of closing ceremonies. There was a silence longer than a drumbeat. From the press row, one could clearly hear the wind slipping through the roof, and even the footsteps of the last volunteers tidying the stands. The flag passed from Nagoya's hands into those of Doha, the capital of Qatar, which will host the 21st edition. But what was handed over in that moment weighed more than a symbol. It was an open question, a doubt not yet named. One edition had just ended, and people began to wonder whether it still had the strength to open again. Speaking at the closing ceremony, organizing committee chairman Hideaki Omura offered his thanks to the athletes, coaches, referees, volunteers and the entire audience. He said: “The Asian Games, which brought countless joy and inspiration, has come to an end.” Those words sounded complete. Set beside what happened backstage, they carried a different tone. According to Korean media, the next edition is planned for Doha, though the timing cannot yet be firmly fixed. Chosun stressed that the cause lies in the 2026 Asiad being held under budget cuts so extreme they bordered on the severe. The consequences cascaded into a series of failings in accommodation management, transport and competition operations. This lack of careful preparation damaged the reputation of the host organizing committee and eroded the prestige, appeal and competitiveness of the Asiad brand itself. Notably, the share of top sports stars taking part fell sharply. Seiko Hashimoto, President of the Japanese Olympic Committee, said bluntly: “The OCA must reflect on the experience at Asiad 20 and prepare for future multi-sport events.” I have followed multi-sport Games for more than three decades, and what drew my attention this time was a question of structure. OCA leadership has just held an important meeting. There, the body began to consider a landmark solution. It will discuss with the International Olympic Committee (IOC) a plan to shift the Asiad cycle from even years to odd years. The goal of the proposal is to place the Asian Games in the year immediately before the Summer Olympics. Some events could then become direct qualifiers for the Olympics. This is seen as the most feasible option to draw world-class athletes back into competition while restoring public interest. If the reform plan is approved, the Asian Games in Doha will most likely be pushed back one year, to 2031 instead of 2030. Seen from the outside, this is a reasonable calculation. An Asian Games sitting close to the Olympics would have a clearer reason to exist. It would no longer stand alone as a single tournament but become a link in the chain of preparation for the planet's biggest stage. National sports federations would have more incentive to send their strongest athletes. Broadcasters would have more reason to buy rights. And the public, accustomed to the two-year rhythm of major events, might rediscover a sense of anticipation. But what is reasonable on paper does not always reach the root of the problem. The problem with the 2026 Asiad was that the budget was cut to an extreme degree, forcing organizers to choose between form and operation. When money shrinks, the first thing sacrificed is the human experience: cramped accommodation, late shuttles, disrupted schedules. These things do not appear on the medal table, but they are imprinted on the memory of every athlete. I once witnessed a Games run on a logic of thrift. What remained afterward was not records but stories of someone waiting three hours to be taken back to their hotel. For a top athlete who has spent four years preparing for a single moment, that experience is enough to keep them from returning. That is why the share of stars fell. They did not skip the Games because it lacked competitive appeal. They skipped it because the opportunity cost had grown too high relative to the benefit. An Asian Games medal no longer carried enough weight to offset exhausting days at a hastily organized event. And when the big stars are absent, the event's appeal falls, which pulls down broadcast rights value, which pulls down the revenue of the next host. A spiral that reinforces itself downward. This is the point that professional sports people have seen for a long time but rarely dare to state plainly. The traditional multi-sport Games model faces double pressure. On one side, hosting costs keep growing, from infrastructure to security to technology. On the other, broadcast revenue is being fragmented by countless streaming platforms, each holding only a small slice of the market. When revenue no longer multiplies as it did in the era of broadcast monopoly, while costs keep rising, the gap between those two numbers becomes a pit. Streaming platforms are repeating the mistakes of old television. They race to buy rights at any price to win users, then discover they cannot recoup their investment. When the growth cycle slows, they begin to cut, and sports events are the first victims. The Asiad is in that group. It lacks the global pull of the Olympics, and it lacks the weekly mass appeal of domestic football leagues. It sits in the middle, and the middle is the most vulnerable place to be. In that situation, the proposal to shift the cycle to odd years appears as a stopgap. It addresses the symptom but leaves the question of the disease. Would an Asian Games held in the year before the Olympics really make top stars want to come? Or would it merely turn the Asiad into a mandatory rehearsal, a checkpoint athletes must pass to be eligible for the Games? If the Asiad becomes an Olympic qualifier, its value will depend on the Olympics. That is a trade-off. On one hand, it guarantees the presence of the strongest athletes, since no one dares miss a chance to earn a berth. On the other, it strips the Asiad of its independence. An edition whose reason for existing is to serve another event can hardly build an identity of its own. And identity is what audiences remember, not the schedule. There is also a scheduling problem. If the Asiad shifts to odd years, it will squeeze into an already crowded window. Odd years are the years of many sport-specific world championships, of regional qualifiers, of events federations committed to years in advance. Moving one major event forces the re-arrangement of an entire system. Not every federation is willing to give way. What stands out is that even if the plan is approved, Doha still has to wait. A one-year delay is not merely a change of number on the calendar. It is an extra year of preparation, an extra year of costs, and an extra year for sponsors to reconsider their commitments. For a country that has hosted the 2026 World Cup and is building an image as a regional sports hub, a later date could be a chance to do better, or a sign that the model is wobbling. I recall a line from a veteran Italian journalist I once drank beer with during a World Cup. He said: touch the ball before you fly. For the Asiad, that ball is the budget figure, the rights contract, the hosting clause. Dry, unglamorous things that nonetheless decide everything. If the OCA only changes the cycle without changing how money is shared, without changing how host nations are supported, then the flag will still be passed, but the hand receiving it will grow more hesitant each time. We do not watch a Games through the medal table; we watch it through memory. And memory forms only when something is beautiful enough, complete enough, to stay. What remains of the 2026 Asiad for me is the wind through the roof, the silence as the flag came down, the unanswered question. A Games can end in silence, but it should not end in indifference. For Doha, 2030 or 2031 is not just a date. It is a chance to prove that an Asian Games can still be run decently without burning money recklessly. If that is achieved, it will be the strongest answer to the doubters. If not, the sigh in Nagoya will be merely the prelude to a longer string of sighs. There are moments that do not sit on the schedule; they sit in the air. And the air of a Games is decided long before the first whistle sounds. From closed-door meetings, from budget figures, from hands signing contracts. When the OCA flag left Nagoya, it carried a lesson. What remains is whether anyone will bother to read that lesson before it is too late.