2002 Olympics: Why the Word Brohammas.

Once upon a time, when I was in college, there was a ski resort with a $10 half day pass. It only took 20 minutes to get from my door to the lift. This combination of affordability and accessibility were the perfect combination for poor academic performance. It did however lead to great back-country board performance. Sadly there is no listing for back country on my transcript.

Several years later, still an undergrad, the roommate of a friend says, “dude!” because that was how we talked, “I need some help at work, do you want a job?”

That was how my friend and I became the managers of the official ticketing center for the Salt Lake 2002 Winter Olympics.
This job consisted of my friend and I managing the staff of a box office, saying “no” to angry scalpers or tourists who bought fake tickets, and sitting in the back room with a schedule of events and this magic box that printed out legit tickets to any and all of the Olympic events.

Our conversations went a lot like this: “Dude, one of us has to be here during business hours so lets each list what events we want to see and plan this out. Okay, so hockey is on Thursday, dude, why would anyone want to watch curling, wait… Dude I told you before no refunds! I know they said they flew here all the way from Denmark just to see curling but if they bought their tickets on Ebay there is no way we can guarantee them… Where were we?”

Speaking of Ebay, we all reported to a large warehouse to get our official uniforms. They were color coded by role, one color for volunteers, another for officials, another for employees. My list said our color was mountain blue. When I received my mountain blue coat I said, “Dude, this is purple! I ain’t wearing a purple ski jacket.” Some guy in Atlanta had no qualms with a purple ski coat and paid me $500 cash via Ebay.

We each thought the other a sucker. I used my cash to buy a Dale of Norway commemorative sweater. Dale thinks I’m a sucker.

I scored two tickets to the opening ceremony. Fifty yard line, about half way up, sweet. I rushed triumphantly home to my beautiful bride, because I had a wife already but still no degree, and presented to her my glorious prize. “Uh… there is no way I’m going to that.” was her simple reply. The words did not register. I repeated again, slower this time, what exactly I had just presented.

Same reply.

“Why?”

“It is winter. It is outside. I-HATE- Cold!”

I called her co workers and anyone else she wasn’t married to and they convinced her that wearing three of my boarding outfits at once may just fend off the elements enough for her to enjoy a once in a lifetime event. She listened to people, most anyone, who was not me.

She is wise.

Having conquered cold the two of us commenced to conquering the nightly medal ceremonies followed by live music. We watched Dave Mathews, Nelly Furtado gave me a rose, and being unable to convince the Mrs. to leave the N’Sync concert early; I walked home five miles, uphill, at night, in February, alone. She drove home once Justin Timberlake had satisfied the roaring crowd of 12 year old girls.

I went down to the basement the other day and pulled the old board out of its bag. The edges are rusted out and the foam around my goggles has turned to dust. These days we rarely brave the cold for a concert and I say dude far less than I once did.

Little is left of those years other than some photos, a line on my resume’, and till the other day, my gloves. I just got a text from Boston saying they had found my glove under the seat of the car. Glove. Singular. Now it seams the only thing left of those powder filled years, is the name of this blog.