The story goes that your parents went to a ski resort when you were just a baby. They brought you to the slope with them so that they could take turns going down the mountain while the other looked after you. But in a rare moment when their backs were turned, you snuck off. You found a pair of unattended skis — for a child, but still bigger than you — and… off you went. Your parents had never even seen you walk before, and here you were, skiing.

Now obviously you didn’t get very far. But you started skiing literally as soon as you could walk, so your parents believed this was a worthy future to invest in. Soon enough, they were teaching you everything they knew. You all took a tri-annual vacation to the same ski resort, then eventually broadened your horizons. And when they felt you were ready, they started sending you to competitions. Then they sent you to the junior Olympics. Then, when they felt as though you’d gotten all the prerequisite experience needed, they decided to get you trained for the real Olympics.

The camp in Germany was meant to be a year-long refresher course; re-introducing you to the sport, familiarizing you with different techniques, preparing you for larger jumps… Although you felt like you were ready, you agreed to the trip. And there is where you met Bronson Peary, a grumpy alcoholic ex-hall-of-famer. Did I mention he’s also American?

Of course he hates you at first. I mean, what do you think you’re doing? You’ll die if you try this at your age, and you’ll die young. But then you sort of… warmed up his frozen heart, as the idiots in Hallmark movies would say. He decides to help you train, one-on-one.

“Up, back, forward, down,” he chants. It’s the same thing each time he talks you through the process of jumping. Soon you’ll be undertaking the 70 meter, and he’s nervous you’re not quite ready.

“Fix your legs.” He pokes your knee for you to correct your posture. “Good. Up, back, forward, down. Now, what’s the foundation of every jump?”