Illustration: Kevin Howdeshell/kevincredible.com
October is the Northern Hemisphere’s most soul-filled month, with all of the past and possibilities for the future colliding in that golden tilting light. The day I sat down to write this column, especially for Coloradoans, those two elements of old and renewed were obviously mixed. At the same time that the news of Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis’s death was starting to scribble across the wires, Wolf Creek Ski Area was celebrating its earliest opening ever with three feet of fresh.
After John Elway, Davis may have been the most important figure in football in this state, providing the rag-tag Broncos with their own Darth Sidious to battle in a final showdown for AFC West supremacy in remake after remake. Cursed, booed and even hated, with three Super Bowl titles to his resume, Davis’ silver-and-black empire continues to provide us with a ready villain to measure our own hometown heroes against. Thanks for the melodrama, Mr. Davis. You will be missed.
And for those who think that these things—death and good luck and the mysteriously recurring patterns of the universe—happen in threes like I do, it was a poignant week. Apple founder Steve Jobs lost his fight with pancreatic cancer, starkly reminding everyone who can’t imagine existence without their iPhone, iPad or MacBook, that even the greatest innovators are still bound by the tenuous web of life.
As for the third? Personally I found it in the passing of Charles Napier, the character actor who played Tucker McElroy in the Blues Brothers. As the lead singer and “driver of the Winnebago,” for the Good Ol’ Boys, he famously told Jake (John Belushi) Blues, “You’re gonna look pretty funny tryin’ to eat corn on the cob with no fuckin’ teeth!”
How all of that got me thinking about the only John Elway poster I ever owned I can only imagine. Just something in that gold, cold air and all the old images it sent spinning like a kind of highlight reel across my mind I guess.
It was one of those perfect sports hero posters that capture the athlete in absolute control of his realm, striding confidently into action as bodies swirled to the right and left. Elway was all decked out in his home turf Broncos stallion whites with his magic blue and orange No. 7 on his chest, his blue eyes ablaze at something moving downfield, and the football still cocked in his arm as he prepared to unleash another leather lightning bolt.
There was the sense of something still about to happen that fascinated you most. That part you invented about the trajectory of the throw, and the receiver still running even now, still just about to look over his shoulder to find the ball and make the catch.
My friend Olan gave it to me for Christmas. He lived down the street growing up in Park Hill. We’d never exchanged Christmas gifts before, but Olan could do unexpected things. He was the first (and only) white kid I ever knew who really could break dance. And in high school he disappeared for a few weeks to Mexico to sell Para-Sail rides on the beach until the towrope broke. Then he brought his new friend Pancho home with him, who wore three pairs of socks under his huaraches when we went to teach him how to snowboard in City Park when the snow was ankle deep.
It was Pancho who became the teacher though, putting his arms out like a bird once he’d strapped in, then floating to the bottom of the little hill. “Like surfing,” he said, to the amazement of both of us.
I haven’t spoken to Olan in years, though I have looked for him on Facebook, where your past and all of your old neighbors and classmates and girlfriends and ski buddies and even people who have died continue to exist. There are two skiers in particular who lost their lives in the past year, one in a slide and one in an avalanche, who I am continually invited to “friend.” And whose pages continue to fill up with messages and remembrances from the people that really did know them, who keep celebrating their lives in an ongoing digital tribute.
Sometimes I wonder how it would feel to actually try to friend someone like that, and if people have, and then how you would feel to receive a note confirming the request. But I also sometimes wonder if I would even recognize a few of the Facebook friends that I do have if I were to pass them on the street.
I suppose there is someone who monitors those pages, especially for the online shrines and message walls that any jackass or virus could turn into an ongoing advertisement for poker sites or secrets to weight loss. And I suppose I just wanted to tell Olan that I remember Pancho, and that poster, and how every October I think of how much of the history of our lives are stored in the memories of someone else.
I took that poster to college with me, as my personal hometown, home-team flag to fly on my wall in direct opposition to all of the Larry Birds, Michael Jordans and Dan Marinos that my classmates had put up beside their other posters of Jim Morrison and Clint Eastwood and Jimi Hendrix. It became my kind of scarlet letter or donkey tail when in two consecutive Super Bowls, the Broncos endured excruciating loss after excruciating loss.
But that wasn’t the reason I tore that poster down, and then into little bits. I did that because I was upset about a girl. And because I wanted that wall to look as bare as my heart. Which is the trick of memory, that for every recollection you hold dear, there are still quite a few other things you’d just as soon forget.
Here’s to all of the snow to come, and to a season that stays as deep as it started at Wolf Creek.
Peter Kray is an East High School graduate who married a Cherry Creek girl. He keeps a framed copy of John Elway’s Broncos rookie card next to his wedding photo. You can read more of his writing, including excerpts of his upcoming novel, The God of Skiing, at shredwhiteandblue.com
