Your father has made Olympic history more than once as the greatest ski jumper who ever lived. While you were growing up, he was rarely home. He was either training for the Olympics or competing in them. When he couldn’t compete any longer, he took you to watch them in person. And when he was home, he was training you to be just like him. He’d made it clear from the very beginning that you were not allowed to do anything but ski. If you thought of any other career, least of all any other sport, you would be a disgrace. So you swallowed all your shame and pride and became a sellout to your own father.

But you absolutely did not want to be a ski jumper. You’d tried like hell to find ways out of the life, but it was impossible. You were at the age and capability now where you were expected to compete in the next year’s Winter Olympics, so your father sent you to the renowned ski jumping camp in Germany. His intentions were for you to fine-tune your skills in time for the competition.

What really happened is you found Bronson Peary, an alcoholic American former-ski-jumper. He got a kick out of sitting on hay bales and watching you practice on your own, because you always failed. It was entertaining to him. Then one day, with your supervising coach, he watched you effortlessly jump the 90 meter goddess. He was baffled.

You stormed angrily off the slope, Peary following you because he just has to know how you did that.

“Are you on steroids?” He asks you as you stampede into the diner, snapping off your gloves and throwing your helmet onto the ground. “The judges don’t like it when contenders have drugs in their systems.”