My heart stops.
The entire finish zone holds its breath.Thousands of fans, frozen.
And then—
He lands.
On one ski.
For a split second, time fractures.The other ski hovers in the air like it might never touch again.His body leans too far.His knee says no.The slope says no.Gravitysays no.
But he fights.
He stomps the second ski down with brute force, like a man wrestling fate by the throat.The vibration ripples through his core, through the hill, through the crowd.
It was like death and physics both reached for him with sharpened talons - even so, he slipped free.
The stadium erupts.
A sound like thunder and joy and shock all braided into one, rising up the slope and echoing off the chalets above.
And he’s still going.
He’sstillgoing.
Through the Lärchenschuss.Over the Hausbergkante jump.Through the turns that make his legs burn, but somehow he looks like he flies.Looking for speed on the traverse, where most look for tools to survive.
He approaches the Zielsprung, the speed gun showing 152 km/h, top speed.
Tucking low, he flies and lands with the softness of a snow leopard.
The crowd is screaming, but I don´t hear them, don´t see them.
All I see is him.
Him,flying like he wasbornon this hill.
No fear.
No hesitation.
No one else.
He crosses the finish line, skis shuddering with speed.
Throws his head back.
Chest heaving.
Alive.
And I—
I exhale.
“Holy shit.”
That’s all I can say.
