Nobody ever bothered to ask why Bronson Peary was so grumpy all the time. Why he swore like a sailor, put everybody down, drank himself into oblivion. Nobody cared. He was just an employee to them.

To you, however, he was a hero.

In his heyday, Bronson Peary was one of the greatest skiers in the world. He hailed from America, and his vague southern charm wooed spectators. Even more than that, but his impressive record won the hearts of many male and female Olympic fans all over the world.

Then he got scared. The attention and desire made him feel like he didn’t have to try. But then when he didn’t try, he hated himself. But then he couldn’t do anything about it, because he had already developed a drinking problem, and he soon faded out of relativity. Newer, younger, more talented Olympians came to light. At the exact same time, Peary was shoved into the dark.

Whatever relationship he’d had with his famous coach Warren Sharp was also destroyed when Sharp publicly declared him his biggest disappointment in his autobiography. So there everything went: his dream, his career, his fame. His self-confidence, his passion, and Warren Sharp.

Now he was just a rude drunk who lived outside the German ski jump camp he worked at.

Then you come along, all bright-eyed and hungry for fame and recognition as one of the Great Olympians. When you realize that Bronson Peary — all but faded into obscurity (except in your keen mind of useless skiing facts) — works at the same place you’re training for your first Olympics competition, you immediately solder yourself to him. Seriously, he can’t get rid of you. And then when you ask him to teach you what he learned from his experiences, he is more offended than he would have been if you’d have just called him a drunken bastard to his face.

“Listen, kid—“ he snaps, spinning around to face you. You’d tried following him into his shop, but he obviously wasn’t having that.

“Leave me alone. Leave me alone, get out of my shop, get out of Germany. You understand me? Go.”