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In Austria, skiing is king Posted: Friday January 18, 2002 12:00 PM
To reach the Austrian town of Kitzbuehel, you exit the A12 Autobahn at Worgl and find Route 170, a two-lane highway that meanders for nearly 20 miles through a wonderland of quaint villages, each with its own Skischule, each with its own small chairlift, T-bar or rope tow, each with several shops in which to buy, rent or tune skis. In all of these villages, the streets are jammed with skiers. Children and their parents, teenagers and their buds, senior citizens. The sample cuts across every demographic. They can be seen clomping through the center of town in ski boots, carrying a pair of Volkls or Atomics over their shoulders, poles in their free hands. There are hillsides that have no lift, yet the pristine white snow is carved by distinctive S turns. Turns out that Austrians commonly drive up narrow roads to the back side of hills that have no lift, then ski down the front. Once. There are many ways to measure a nation's passion for sport. In the United States, Starter jackets and replica jerseys are a good indication. To be a grown man wearing a $250 Kurt Warner jersey to dinner at Applebee's with the family, you've got to love your football and your Rams. For eight years in the '80s and '90s, I lived in northern New Jersey. Every Sunday in the fall one of my neighbors would wear his blue Lawrence Taylor jersey all day. To wash the car, rake the leaves and then sit on the couch and watch the Giants play. There are other signs. In my lifetime, I've been to probably 150 major-college football games, from Arizona to Washington to Massachusetts to Florida. Saturday mornings are a remarkable sight. People dressed in team colors, driving cars and SUVs and motor homes adorned in team colors and team flags and team spare-tire covers. Pregame is an invasion. Here's the point: In the United States, we love our football. We love our baseball and basketball, too, but I would argue that football is the country's touchstone. After the big three, the graph drops off dramatically. But whatever the sport, bless our hearts. I'm not sure I would have survived adolescence without the New York Knicks and Notre Dame and the maroon and white of Whitehall High School, for whom I played and pretended to be Walt Frazier or Joe Theismann. Other countries have their passions, too, and witnessing them should not amaze me, but it does. Every time. In 1994, I visited a small neighborhood near Lillehammer, Norway, where dozens of small children went to school and returned home wearing cross-country skis and where Olympic cross-country skiers like Bjorn Daehlie are heroes. Last spring I spent a week in Kenya and saw hundreds of sinewy, long-legged boys and girls running through impoverished villages to their schools, a long-held myth proved true before my eyes. I have attended track meets throughout Europe, where crowds cheer with verve seen only in Eugene, Ore. Now again. I am in Austria this week, covering the legendary (well, they're legendary to skiers) Hahnenkamm races in Kitzbuehel. Trust me: As much as Americans love football, Austrians love skiing more. Perhaps this isn't fair. Austrians live on ski slopes; Americans don't live in the Rose Bowl. I ski and I love it, but I do not love it the way Austrians do. On this issue, I surrender. On Thursday afternoon, roughly 10,000 people sat and stood in the cold winter air to watch downhill training runs on the storied and treacherous Hahnenkamm course. I walked from the hill to a village hotel with U.S. skier Daron Rahlves, and he was absolutely mobbed by fans seeking his autograph. "Gets kind of crazy over here," Rahlves said. Remember, this is a guy who can get around almost anywhere in his own country with scarcely a distraction. Later that night I went to watch a lighted slalom race in the hillside town of Westendorf, 15 miles from Kitzbuehel. The race was below World Cup level, but because the World Cup is in Kitzbuehel, many top racers were among the staggering 152 entrants. On a very cold night, thousands of people lined the steep, illuminated slope to watch the likes of red-hot U.S. skier Bode Miller race two runs. Miller, sadly, raced only one; his first was by far the fastest in the field but he was disqualified for straddling one gate mid-course. But long after his DQ, Miller stayed and signed autographs. One teenager asked him for his Spyder hat. "No," said Bode "Why not?" asked the kid. "Because it's my hat," said Bode. "And I'll be f---ing cold if I give it to you." Impressed with the logic, the kid laughed and walked away. Newspapers here are packed with ski stories. Television stations carry live skiing whenever it's available. On Wednesday of this week, überchampion Hermann Maier announced that he was abandoning his plan to try to compete in Salt Lake City, still too weakened by the aftereffects of an August motorcycle crash. The press conference at which he made his announcement was jammed with media. Think Michael Jordan. At one point, the Hermannator paused and held the bridge of his nose, as if he were fighting back tears. He is the best of all Austrian skiers and now he will not ski in the Olympic Games. I understand, now, why he might wish to cry. Sports Illustrated senior writer Tim Layden is a regular contributor to
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