Today is the anniversary of the 1976 Winter Olympics Ski-Jumping event in Innsbruck, Austria. Since that event is chronicled in my latest novel, Back in the DDR, I decided to present that portion of the book as a Free Excerpt today. Obviously you'll be missing some of the context because it's in the middle of the book, but I think you'll enjoy it anyway.
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The Bergiselschanze was the site of
the ski-jumping event, and I wasn’t prepared for how incredible it was. We had
seats near the bottom of the jump, but there were also 20,000 seats all the way
up and down the jump.
I was
transfixed by the courage of these crazy people who voluntarily put on skis,
and skied down this jump, hoping to fly through the air. Each time a skier
started down the hill; I was picturing the Wide World of Sports “Agony
of Defeat” opening sequence. It looked scary on television. In real life, it
was a million times worse. It’s straight downhill at the steepest angle
imaginable. Take the worst roller coaster drop you’ve ever seen, make it twice
as steep, double and triple the length, then put on skis and ski down it. And
then, even if you manage to land safely on your skis (onto the icy snow),
you only have about thirty yards to stop before you plow into the spectator
section.
These ski jumpers are insane.
Mom and
Dad were both distracted, which was fine by me, because I was able to soak in
the atmosphere without having to answer more questions about my stay in
Mondsee. I had said all I wanted to say about that matter. If they wanted to
push it, they were going to push it into tantrum land. That’s probably why they
stopped asking questions.
The
Austrians around us were giddy because their ski-jumpers were among the
favorites. A few of them were holding signs for Karl Schnabel. Schnabel had won
the bronze in the small hill event a few days ago, behind a couple of East
Germans. That was troubling to me. Based on my reading of the maps of East and
West Germany, the biggest mountains were in the West. How did the East Germans
do so well in this event, while the West Germans were nowhere to be seen? I
thought this must have been troubling Dad too, because every time they said an
East German ski jumper’s name, Dad’s ears perked up, and he paid very close
attention.
“Where
are the mountains in East Germany?” I asked.
“I don’t
know,” he said.
“Fichtelberg
is a pretty tall mountain along the Czechoslovakia border,” my mother answered
for him. “It’s in Saxony. One of my Onkels lives near there.”
“Is that
a pretty obscure mountain?” I asked.
“Not
really.”
“What’s
wrong with Dad?” I whispered. “I thought he was the expert on everything West
and East German.”
She
didn’t respond. I was getting used to that. For some reason, people just don’t
bother answering my questions. I’m invisible. Maybe I should rob a bank. Nobody
would notice.
I looked up at the leader board and saw that
the Americans were not very good at this event. With ten jumpers still to go,
the top American wasn’t in the Top Ten. There weren’t going to be any medals
for our guys. I wondered if this event was even being televised in America. I’m
sure they covered Dorothy Hamill the other night. Judging by how much people
were talking about her around here, I could only imagine what it’s like in
America. We Americans love our figure skaters. The same can’t be said of our
ski jumpers. I don’t even know the “Agony of Defeat” guy’s name or country. I
chuckled as I thought of a joke. If he’s American, he's probably known as
Captain Crunched.
I wish I had my anthropology notebook with
me. I already had a section of jokes about the Wide World of Sports in
there. I thought they should use the song “Wipeout” by the Surfaris instead of
that dramatic classical music during the ski jumping scene. I chuckled to
myself again when I thought of another joke. I’m on a roll now. How about this
one? The American “Agony of Defeat” ski-jumper’s name is Niagara.
Niagara Falls. Get it?
That’s too good not to write down.
“Mom, do
you have a pen I can borrow?” I asked.
She
rifled through her purse and pulled out a Bic.
“Piece
of paper?” I asked.
“Sorry,
no,” she said.
I looked
through my pockets for something to write on. I couldn’t find anything. Dad was
standing next to me, straining to see the leader board. He had taken off his
rucksack and put it between his feet. I noticed a little white tag on the side
of his rucksack, near the zipper. That could work. If I didn’t write this joke
down right now, I knew I was going to forget it forever. So, I got down on one
knee, and wrote “Niagara” on the tag. I figured I could transfer it to the
notebook when we got back to the hotel.
Turns
out it was just in the nick of time. When the next East German jumper was
called out, Hans-Georg-Dieter-Joachim something or other, Dad grabbed his
rucksack and left us there in the row.
“I’ll be
right back,” he said.
The crowd noise let me know that the next
jumper was on his way down the ramp. I turned back toward the ski jump and saw
the East German with four first names flying through the air. His body was
leaning forward, almost parallel to the ground. His skis were pointing up
slightly. As he came closer to the earth, he leaned back, put his hands out to
his side to keep his balance, and landed softly on the ground. It was so
graceful. I was expecting the crowd to erupt with applause, but it was a pretty
calm reaction. When they posted his distance, I understood why.
He was now in first place.
Two Austrians were still to come; the very
famous (according to the signs around me) Karl Schnabl, and another one named
Toni Innauer.
Somebody tapped my shoulder. I turned around
to see another boy about my age. His face was painted like the Austrian flag.
“Do you think Schnabl can do it?” he asked.
“Schnabl is the best!” I answered, almost
too enthusiastically.
“We saw him at Seefeld,” my new friend
replied, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Aschenbach beat him by ten.”
I pretended to bite my fingernails.
“Best of luck!” my new friend said. He
patted me on my back. “I’m pressing my thumbs.”
“Me too.”
I turned back toward the ski-jump. Out of
the corner of my eye I could see my mom snickering.
“What?”
“Daumen Drücken,” she said, repeating my new
friend’s words.
“Press your thumbs?” I translated again.
“Do you know what that means?”
“No,” I admitted.
“That’s the Austrian version of cross your
fingers.”
“Ah.”
I guess that makes about as much sense as
crossing your fingers does.
“From Austria,” the PA announcer said, “Karl
Schnabl.”
“Schnabl! Schnabl! Schnabl!” the crowd began
chanting.
I looked to the top of the hill and saw a
little speck in the darkness near the top. The top of that ski jump was higher
than any point in the entire state of Illinois. Soon that little speck started
moving down the jump. Straight down. He hit the edge of the jump, and whoosh,
he was up in the air. The crowd held their collective breaths. It seemed like
he was never going to land. Finally, his arms went to his sides, the skis
landed softly in the snow, and Schnabel threw his fist in the air. The crowd
erupted before his distance was even posted. When Schnabl came to a stop, he
was instantly surrounded by his ski-jumping teammates and coaches.
“Did you see that?” my dad asked. I hadn’t
seen him return to his seat.
“Wow!”
Everyone kept their eyes on the board. It
usually took a few seconds to post it. The number to beat the East German was
221.7.
The number posted: 234.8.
I cheered as loudly as everyone else in the
place. One hour ago I had never heard of Karl Schnabl, but now I was chanting
his name and thought he was just about the most impressive man in the world.
Mom and Dad were cheering too.
“Give me five, Dad,” I said, holding out my
palm.
He shook it.
Close enough.
Schnabl won the Gold Medal, Innauer won the
silver, and the East German won the bronze.
