A Matter of Time

 

“Competitor, are you ready?” I lean on my poles and visualize the steep mogul course: the start, top air jump, mid course, bottom air, finish run. “Yes!” I stand upright, flexing forward into my boots. My coach pats me on the back “Come on, Jeremy! Let’s see it kid!” The radio crackles “Judges are ready...Timers ready.” The starter begins the countdown, “Competitor 1-0-9 is ready. Three – Two – One – Hut!”

      “Hey, Jeremy, what are you doing?”

      “Eh,” I answered without being disturbed.

      “What’s the book?” I silently flipped through pages with determination.  Tim leaned down and looked up to see the title.  “You're still pretty upset about your run, huh?  Good luck going through the rule book.”

      Absorbed, I called out, “Thanks,” but too late.  I looked up to see Tim walking out the door.  I went back to searching through the USSA Freestyle Rule Book.  I found the section for mogul scoring.

Busting out of the starting gate, charging forward, pushing with my poles and absorbing straight over the moguls, I settle into the natural rhythm of the bumps: Left – Right – Up – Down. My knees roll smoothly from side to side, and my skis never lose contact with the snow.  Upper body still...eyes focused down the course...a cocktail tray could balance on my head.  The top air jump approaches.  I pump the last mogul for a boost of speed.

      “If there is no electronic time for the run, then average the difference between the electronic time and the hand time for the three competitors prior to that run.  Then apply the difference to the hand time.”  I had found the rule.

Shooting into the air, executing a floating spin, landing cleanly, I retain my rhythm: Up – Down – Left – Right. I move smoothly and effortlessly through the midcourse moguls.  Blasting over the mounds of snow, my heart races and the adrenaline rushes through my body. My senses are heightened. This is why I compete.

      I hurried over to the competition center.  I asked to see a meet official.

      “They’re meeting right now. They’re finalizing the scores,” the clerk responded.

      “I want to protest my scores…I have to talk with them. The one-hour time limit is nearly up.”

      “Okay, go upstairs.”

Rocketing upward off the second jump, I execute a complex helicopter: rotate 180…iron-cross…180…spread…land perfectly. “YES!  This could be it. This could be the run in which I finally podium.” In the tempo of my heartbeat, I race to the finish.

      I walked up the stairs deliberately, composing myself.  Voices murmured behind the door as I knocked.  The door opened partially. The scorer’s head appeared.

      “Can we help you?”

      “Yes, I would like to protest the mogul scoring. The electric timer malfunctioned on my run.  I was told to take a rerun. I believe my first run should be scored.”

      “Okay, hold on.”  The scorer turned inside.  “Guys, there’s a competitor here who wants us to count his first run, though we don’t have an electronic time on him.  He wants to present his case.”  There was a pause, then a few murmurs.  “All right, let’s hear it.”

I cross the finish line, yet keep turning to show control.  Stopping in a spray of snow, I raise my arms to the side as if saying, “What!? What!? Tell me, what was wrong with that run!” I move through the finish area to my coach and give an enthusiastic high-five.  The speakers boom, ”Competitor 1-0-9, please report to the top of the course for a rerun.”  They had found something wrong with my perfect run -  the timing.

      I addressed the jury: chief of competition, technical delegate, and head judge. Like a debate, I had to convince them though they doubted me.  Presenting the rule that I found,  I argued that it was possible for me to still have a valid time for my first run.  If the electronic time failed there were hand timers for that purpose.  “But we only have one hand time for that run.  Usually we have three.”  I paused, stunned. 

      Thinking quickly, I quoted the rule book, “time”, singular.  They agree.   

      “How do you propose we find your time manually with only one time?”  Again, I paused.  I was not prepared for this question. 

      “Ummm…I suppose that if you keep consistent with the same timer for the three runs before mine, it would be okay.  Just as the rule book implies.” 

      “We have another problem.  The competitor who went before you also had time malfunction.”  ‘Okay, okay, stay cool there are solutions to this,’ I said to myself. 

      “You could still use the electric and manual times before him, correct?”  The officials huddled together.  I could not stop fidgeting. My hands were becoming clammy. 

      “Yes, I suppose we could.  We’ll compute new scores from your first run.”

      I had done it.  I had convinced a skeptical jury that I was right. 

      “Wait, we still have a problem.  We do not have your scores from the first run.  They seem to have been thrown into the trash up on the mountain.”  What was this?  I could not believe what I was hearing.  I worked so hard, skiing that run of my life, going through the rule book, supporting my petition.  Not only had I lost the battle, I had lost the war.  “Well, I suppose you could check the trash. It came down with us.” 

      I rushed out, calling “Be right back.” I ran down the stairs.  Finding the black trash bags and rolling up my sleeves, I started to search the bags for my score sheets.  Oh, here were scores for a forerunner.  There was one of my sheets!  Here were some for the pacesetters.  Where were my scores?  I kept digging.  Here was another of my scores, stapled to something else.  Augh!…another drenched in coffee.  That was three; I needed five.  A fourth was crumpled in the bottom of the bag - only one more.  I searched…I searched again.  Where was the fifth score sheet?!  I had come so far, only to be thwarted!

      “Jeremy, why are you going through the trash?”

      “I am looking for my fifth score sheet for my first run, Tim. I’ve filed a protest.”

      “Wait…there were only four judges today. But you’re wasting your time, no body ever wins a protest.”

      I stopped and raised my head, my hands still in the trash, “You’re right, only four judges!”  I gathered the crumpled, stained sheets and rushed back to the officials.  The scores were accepted.  All that remained was the wait.

      I entered a lunch hall filled with competitors, coaches and families. Sitting alone, the minutes dragged. Doubt started to creep into my mind. I had done all this on a hunch, on a gut feeling. As the head scorer came into the hall silence fell.  “A competitor protested the scoring. That’s the reason for the delay.”  I felt the whole room glare at me.  What could I do, except sit there and look straight ahead?  So there I was, uncomfortably waiting for an award that I didn’t even know I would receive.  The scorer called out names starting at tenth place and going to sixth.  Each competitor went up to receive his medal.  Now the top five, I had not been called.  “In fourth place is Jeremy...” my heart skipped, this would have been my highest finish for this season, “–uh– Weir.”  My chance for the podium was evaporating.  The scorer continued on: “In third…In second…” In second was the top gun who was expected to win.  My efforts were for naught.  I was hoping to make the top three, half expecting to be third.  It was late. I started to gather my gear. “And finally, in first place, the skier who dug through the garbage to find his winning scores –uh– Jeremy April.”  Again, everyone turned and looked at me in stunned silence.  My teammates started cheering, then applause filled the hall.

Climbing the podium, I shake hands with the third and second placing competitors.  I step up to the top of the podium.  After pausing to look out over everyone, I bow my head, allowing the head judge to place the gold medal around my neck.  I stand erect once again and victoriously throw my arms in the air as my teammates explode.

 

Jeremy April

November 2000