But the diminutive understanding of, say, biathlon or speed skating, doesn't diminish my own Olympic enjoyment, or my dream. Perhaps some of you envision yourself screaming down a mountain at 80mph like Lindsey Vonn, toying with gravity like Shaun White or starting in goal for USA Hockey and deflecting the Canadian wrist shots of Jarome Iginla, Rick Nash and Sid Crosby. But not me.
I want to be a coach & choreographer for pairs figure skating.
As per a back-story: my name is Kern (no first name) and I hail from a remote outpost of Azerbaijan. I have no family and require no friends. Skating is my life and my maniacal passion for pairs figure skating has found me banned for life from several international competitions, however loophole provisions in the International Olympic Committee'sgovernance has allowed me to coach in every Olympics since 1968 in Grenoble. My methods are redoubtable and controversial, yet my routines are universally viewed as successful, albeit stressful. During competition, I hang over the cushioned edge of the rink with a ubiquitous Kent cig dangling below my moustache. I haven't participated in an interview since I was forced to punch Dick Button in the stomach back in 1988 at the Calgary Games.
But despite these personal shortcomings -- the haughty medal count for my charges has offered irrefutable evidence that I always achieve results.
During training, I force my skaters to perform routines measuring double the time of a long program so that there is no cause or concern for fatigue come the actual performance. Falls and slips during practice are met with penalty and punishment so severe that my charges eventually will themselves into sleeping in a standing position. We train in isolation; there are no newspapers, televisions, computers or phones allowed at my private facility and the rare piece of mail that finds my address is employed as kindling. For breakfast: red meat. Lunch consists of deep meditation. At suppertime, I yell for three strait hours.
But once the respective Olympiad begins -- my skaters always perform with aplomb. I have never left any Games sans a Gold medal. And then, I disappear.
My routines are unique in that I always use a live band; typically I go with Danzig, and the Vancouver offering will be a performance of their metal anthem, "Mother." None of that Carmen shit. The costumes are hand-sewn by me, and threaded with titanium-enriched nylon that promotes blood flow and assuages muscular strain. We don't get cute with clown costumers or any homage to antiquity -- these styles are tight and black and intimidating, constructed in accord with the Johnny Cash "Flesh & Blood" school of design.
My men are strong and angry and my women are lithe and beautiful. The choreography tells a story, generally one of colossal love lost but ultimately re-discovered. Each motion, every movement serves as a paragraph in my love tale and every routine is adapted from a yarn that I have personally penned and well-edited prior to placing the words to movement and music. Of course we meet all the technical elements required by the IOC, but a fundamental facet of my routines assures that we'll always do more than the minimal stipulation. We laugh at the triple axel, guffaw at the death-drop spin, giggle at a quadruple lutz or salchow. I knew Salchow! Met Ulrich in the late 1930's at a tavern in Halmstad and rather enjoyed his company for a short spell before our friendship was bluntly concluded when I was forced to cleave his left calve with the jagged rake of his own blade. But I digress.
For the dramatic closure of our long routine, I have constructed a new and never-before-seen element for Vancouver where my skaters find themselves at opposite ends of the rink. As Danzig rises to a fever pitch, the separated lovers sprint toward one another at the center of the ice before hurling themselves together in mid-air where they kiss deeply while performing three conjoined spins. When they land at the precise moment of the song's closure, the female uses herblade to carve her initials into the chest of her male counterpart.
I flick my Kent onto the ice amidst the mosaic of roses and pillows and little Quatchi dolls and then accompany my charges to the judging seats where we share whispered impressions of our routine and patiently await our Gold.
My name is Kern and this is my Olympic dream.
And what, may I ask, is yours?