Salon Wanderlust | Flying away

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A L S O+T O D A Y
Scalpers, skiers and cultural schizophrenia
By Cintra Wilson
Our woman in Nagano checks out deluxe slopeside port-o-lets, "child hornet" snacks and other Olympic oddities
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T A B L E_T A L K
New Year's Eve 1999: Do you have plans yet? Mark your calendars in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
Cold war
By Gary Kamiya
The Czechs battle the Russians on ice
(02/18/98)
The Christlike and redemptive powers of ice hockey
By Cintra Wilson
Our second Salon correspondent in Nagano reflects on Olympic evolution, personality cults and Russian mafiosi
(02/18/98)
Plastered in Nagano
By Koya Ide
Olympics sponsors' ads are everywhere
(02/17/98)
Passionate and penniless in Paris
By Maxine Rose Schur
A magical memory
(02/13/98)
Retro burger
By Gary Kamiya
Our Olympics correspondent muses on women's hockey, Japanese English, the quest for tosto and other cross-cultural oddities
(02/12/98)

Browse the
Feature archives

flying away________
OUR MAN IN JAPAN WITNESSES MASAHIKO HARADA'S TRANSCENDENT TRIUMPH ON THE SLOPES -- AND PARTIES ALL NIGHT WITH CHEST-BITING JAPANESE AND THE U.S. WOMEN'S HOCKEY TEAM

The U.S. team celebrates its 3-1 victory over Canada in the first-ever women's hockey gold medal game Tuesday.
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BY GARY KAMIYA | NAGANO, Japan -- The 120-meter ski jump is the biggest kid's slide in the world. It is also one of the most beautiful sporting events invented by man. The jumper starts at the top of a long concrete incline that looms above the crowd like a huge industrial launching pad aimed at the sky. High above the crowd, he crouches and launches himself down the slope. He needs speed above all else, speed that will place a powerful hand behind and under his body at the moment he shoots heavenward off a ramp and carry him into his transformation, when he will become first a bird, and then a falling paper plane.
The snow flies under him, the ramp rushes up at him. Then with a great lifting pull he explodes upward into space. He has to gain altitude and carry it, and to do that he must know some gentle, secret language of the air, some intimate way of caressing the sky just so with his body. Not many do.
He is flying -- or is it falling? This is the only time when you fly and fall at the same time. Now his climb ends and he is going forward and down, skis spread apart, the ground sloping down far below him. He must perform a supremely unnatural act, leaning forward almost parallel to the ground, his face right over the tips of his skis. If those long launching-sticks were to fall off now, he would plunge like a stone to his death. But he is not a stone; he is a man flying through the air. He must become a glider. His form in the air must be absolutely still and clean, like a razor or a haiku.
Gravity seizes him, but he defies it. This is the time when championships are won. He holds his form, holds it, holds it, even as ground and defeat call to him. He leans out, willing himself to stay aloft a fraction of a second longer. And then, as gently as a falling leaf dropping into an alpine lake, he touches down. His flight has lasted about three seconds, and he has soared more than 250 feet in the air.
Tuesday morning, on the big hill in Hakuba, I saw one of those events that transcend sport to become something larger. The event was the 120-meter team ski-jumping championship, and the drama was centered on a ski jumper named Masahiko Harada. Harada has been under a curse for years. At these Games, he set the record on the big hill Sunday with a jump of 136 meters in the individual competition, but a weak earlier jump forced him to settle for a bronze. Harada's curse was far older and deeper than that, however. In Lillehammer, Japan was leading the team competition going into the last jump (four team members from each nation jump twice each; the winner is the country with the highest combined total, including distance and style marks). But Harada flopped, coming up with a terrible last jump -- and the Germans won the gold.
Harada's pain must have been of an order that is hard for an American to comprehend. For this was the teamcompetition -- and teamwork means something completely different to the Japanese than it does to Americans. Children are raised, employees are taught, to be part of a team. To let down the team is to violate something sacred.
Yet the Japanese didn't turn on Harada. In fact, he was one of the most beloved, if not the most beloved, athletes in the country.
The final element of the drama was national. Ever since the 1972 Sapporo Olympics, when Japan swept the medals on the 120-meter hill, ski jumping has been a point of national pride, verging on obsession.
The jump took place in a blizzard. The huge, passionate crowd -- it looked close to 50,000 -- was enveloped by a whirling, at times almost blinding, snow that forced several delays and led officials to cancel the start of the second round of jumpers. In the first round of jumps, Takanobu Okabe, Hiroya Saito and Kazuyoshi Funaki came up with strong jumps -- but Harada, jumping into blinding snow, posted a disastrous 79.5 meters that knocked Japan into fourth place behind Austria, Germany and Norway. It looked like the Olympics curse was fated to repeat itself.
In the second round, after the delay, Okabe sailed to a course-record 137 meters, giving the Japanese, with 540.7 points, a narrow lead over Germany, 534.0, Norway, 532.9, and Austria, 524.0. The pressure was on Japan. They had gold medalist Funaki jumping last, but a poor or even an average jump by the third jumper, Harada, might put them in a hole too big to dig out of.
Harada went onto the hill. The roar from the overwhelmingly Japanese crowd was deafening. "Ha-ra-da! Ha-ra-da!" I snuck a look at the man next to me: He looked like he was praying. A little old lady was shrieking and waving her arms. If you couldn't feel what the Olympics were all about at that moment, you were merely a zombie walking around in a human body. He was ready. A tiny speck on the long, curved ramp, he started down.
Almost the moment Harada sailed into the air, you could tell he'd hit it. He flattened out, almost kissing his skis, and simply became a horizontal line, holding his height, drifting rapidly and effortlessly down the mountainside. Far, far down he floated, until he touched down beyond the last mark. It took them a while to measure the jump. When the words "137 meters" appeared on the scoreboard, pandemonium broke out. Harada shook his fists in triumph. He had equaled Okabe's mark -- the longest Olympic ski jump ever recorded.
But the Austrians and Germans weren't done. Their star jumpers put up strong figures to retake the lead. The last jumper of the day, Funaki, an angel-faced 22-year-old, got ready. He had to hit a solid jump to sew up the gold for Japan.
Funaki imperturbably sailed a strong 125 meters. He knelt down in the snow and watched the scoreboard. A moment passed. Then the final standings appeared.
1.) Japan
2.) Germany
3.) Austria
Funaki fell backwards onto the snow. His teammates mobbed him, shouting. Harada was rolling in the snow like a baby. "I did it! I did it!" he shouted. He looked bewildered. And then, his face began to twitch and he started to cry, his strangely timid, almost old ladylike face crumpling. He cried and cried, as he stood embracing his teammates, as he stood on the podium to receive the flowers, an incredulous, grateful, shy grin revealing his large, bad teeth. And everyone in the stadium roared and smiled with him, and some wept, too. Teenage girls pressed against the fence and screamed and gibbered like Beatles fans.
N E X T+P A G E+| Partying with chest-biting Japanese and rival hockey teams

PHOTOGRAPH BY AL BELLO/ALLSPORT
Archived images are provided by Allsport Photography USA, Inc. all rights reserved, any redistribution, resale, re-print or other use is strictly prohibited without written consent from Allsport Photography USA, Inc. directly.


- - - - - - - - - - A L S O+T O D A Y Scalpers, skiers and cultural schizophrenia By Cintra Wilson Our woman in Nagano checks out deluxe slopeside port-o-lets, "child hornet" snacks and other Olympic oddities - - - - - - - - - - T A B L E_T A L K New Year's Eve 1999: Do you have plans yet? Mark your calendars in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Cold war By Gary Kamiya The Czechs battle the Russians on ice (02/18/98) The Christlike and redemptive powers of ice hockey By Cintra Wilson Our second Salon correspondent in Nagano reflects on Olympic evolution, personality cults and Russian mafiosi (02/18/98) Plastered in Nagano By Koya Ide Olympics sponsors' ads are everywhere (02/17/98) Passionate and penniless in Paris By Maxine Rose Schur A magical memory (02/13/98) Retro burger By Gary Kamiya Our Olympics correspondent muses on women's hockey, Japanese English, the quest for tosto and other cross-cultural oddities (02/12/98) Browse the Feature archives		flying away________ OUR MAN IN JAPAN WITNESSES MASAHIKO HARADA'S TRANSCENDENT TRIUMPH ON THE SLOPES -- AND PARTIES ALL NIGHT WITH CHEST-BITING JAPANESE AND THE U.S. WOMEN'S HOCKEY TEAM The U.S. team celebrates its 3-1 victory over Canada in the first-ever women's hockey gold medal game Tuesday. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY GARY KAMIYA \| NAGANO, Japan -- The 120-meter ski jump is the biggest kid's slide in the world. It is also one of the most beautiful sporting events invented by man. The jumper starts at the top of a long concrete incline that looms above the crowd like a huge industrial launching pad aimed at the sky. High above the crowd, he crouches and launches himself down the slope. He needs speed above all else, speed that will place a powerful hand behind and under his body at the moment he shoots heavenward off a ramp and carry him into his transformation, when he will become first a bird, and then a falling paper plane. The snow flies under him, the ramp rushes up at him. Then with a great lifting pull he explodes upward into space. He has to gain altitude and carry it, and to do that he must know some gentle, secret language of the air, some intimate way of caressing the sky just so with his body. Not many do. He is flying -- or is it falling? This is the only time when you fly and fall at the same time. Now his climb ends and he is going forward and down, skis spread apart, the ground sloping down far below him. He must perform a supremely unnatural act, leaning forward almost parallel to the ground, his face right over the tips of his skis. If those long launching-sticks were to fall off now, he would plunge like a stone to his death. But he is not a stone; he is a man flying through the air. He must become a glider. His form in the air must be absolutely still and clean, like a razor or a haiku. Gravity seizes him, but he defies it. This is the time when championships are won. He holds his form, holds it, holds it, even as ground and defeat call to him. He leans out, willing himself to stay aloft a fraction of a second longer. And then, as gently as a falling leaf dropping into an alpine lake, he touches down. His flight has lasted about three seconds, and he has soared more than 250 feet in the air. Tuesday morning, on the big hill in Hakuba, I saw one of those events that transcend sport to become something larger. The event was the 120-meter team ski-jumping championship, and the drama was centered on a ski jumper named Masahiko Harada. Harada has been under a curse for years. At these Games, he set the record on the big hill Sunday with a jump of 136 meters in the individual competition, but a weak earlier jump forced him to settle for a bronze. Harada's curse was far older and deeper than that, however. In Lillehammer, Japan was leading the team competition going into the last jump (four team members from each nation jump twice each; the winner is the country with the highest combined total, including distance and style marks). But Harada flopped, coming up with a terrible last jump -- and the Germans won the gold. Harada's pain must have been of an order that is hard for an American to comprehend. For this was the teamcompetition -- and teamwork means something completely different to the Japanese than it does to Americans. Children are raised, employees are taught, to be part of a team. To let down the team is to violate something sacred. Yet the Japanese didn't turn on Harada. In fact, he was one of the most beloved, if not the most beloved, athletes in the country. The final element of the drama was national. Ever since the 1972 Sapporo Olympics, when Japan swept the medals on the 120-meter hill, ski jumping has been a point of national pride, verging on obsession. The jump took place in a blizzard. The huge, passionate crowd -- it looked close to 50,000 -- was enveloped by a whirling, at times almost blinding, snow that forced several delays and led officials to cancel the start of the second round of jumpers. In the first round of jumps, Takanobu Okabe, Hiroya Saito and Kazuyoshi Funaki came up with strong jumps -- but Harada, jumping into blinding snow, posted a disastrous 79.5 meters that knocked Japan into fourth place behind Austria, Germany and Norway. It looked like the Olympics curse was fated to repeat itself. In the second round, after the delay, Okabe sailed to a course-record 137 meters, giving the Japanese, with 540.7 points, a narrow lead over Germany, 534.0, Norway, 532.9, and Austria, 524.0. The pressure was on Japan. They had gold medalist Funaki jumping last, but a poor or even an average jump by the third jumper, Harada, might put them in a hole too big to dig out of. Harada went onto the hill. The roar from the overwhelmingly Japanese crowd was deafening. "Ha-ra-da! Ha-ra-da!" I snuck a look at the man next to me: He looked like he was praying. A little old lady was shrieking and waving her arms. If you couldn't feel what the Olympics were all about at that moment, you were merely a zombie walking around in a human body. He was ready. A tiny speck on the long, curved ramp, he started down. Almost the moment Harada sailed into the air, you could tell he'd hit it. He flattened out, almost kissing his skis, and simply became a horizontal line, holding his height, drifting rapidly and effortlessly down the mountainside. Far, far down he floated, until he touched down beyond the last mark. It took them a while to measure the jump. When the words "137 meters" appeared on the scoreboard, pandemonium broke out. Harada shook his fists in triumph. He had equaled Okabe's mark -- the longest Olympic ski jump ever recorded. But the Austrians and Germans weren't done. Their star jumpers put up strong figures to retake the lead. The last jumper of the day, Funaki, an angel-faced 22-year-old, got ready. He had to hit a solid jump to sew up the gold for Japan. Funaki imperturbably sailed a strong 125 meters. He knelt down in the snow and watched the scoreboard. A moment passed. Then the final standings appeared. 1.) Japan 2.) Germany 3.) Austria Funaki fell backwards onto the snow. His teammates mobbed him, shouting. Harada was rolling in the snow like a baby. "I did it! I did it!" he shouted. He looked bewildered. And then, his face began to twitch and he started to cry, his strangely timid, almost old ladylike face crumpling. He cried and cried, as he stood embracing his teammates, as he stood on the podium to receive the flowers, an incredulous, grateful, shy grin revealing his large, bad teeth. And everyone in the stadium roared and smiled with him, and some wept, too. Teenage girls pressed against the fence and screamed and gibbered like Beatles fans. N E X T+P A G E+\| Partying with chest-biting Japanese and rival hockey teams PHOTOGRAPH BY AL BELLO/ALLSPORT Archived images are provided by Allsport Photography USA, Inc. all rights reserved, any redistribution, resale, re-print or other use is strictly prohibited without written consent from Allsport Photography USA, Inc. directly.