On skiing with Olympians and passing up a chance to play pickup ball with Adam Morrison

During the summer of my junior year in high school, I found myself presented with an impossible offer.

Play pickup basketball with the Gonzaga basketball team. That was the year of J.P. Batista, Erroll Knight and, of course, Adam Morrison.

I was a 6-foot power forward from a nothing North Idaho league. We didn’t play with finesse, skill or speed. We barely played basketball. I’m sure for anyone but the most devoted parent, it was a chore to watch us stumbling around.

But my father’s well-intentioned colleague, Shann Ferch, a local basketball legend himself, offered to “prop a door” open during one of Gonzaga’s summertime open gym sessions.

In a moment of sanity, he recommended I bring someone my own size/skill/speed to match up against.

I nearly took him up on the offer. But then some nascent voice of self-preservation, wisdom and restraint chimed in and I walked myself back from the brink.

Standing on the edge of a snow-covered cliff 10 years later, I wondered where all that good sense went. I figured I would mature as I aged. Apparently not.

It was a bluebird day in Tahoe, California, and I was skiing at Squaw Valley Ski Resort.

What a place to die.

Beside me stood my cousin, Marco Sullivan. He’s a humble, unassuming man. You’d never know he was a four-time Olympic downhill skier. Or at least you wouldn’t know until it was too late and you were standing on the edge of a cliff watching his wife, Anna Goodman, also a former Olympian, ski down a steep, narrow chute bordered on both sides by vicious-looking rock.

He motioned me ahead.

I grew up skiing irregularly. I learned at a young age, but would only go up a few times every winter. In college, I went through phases. One year skiing nearly every weekend, followed by two years of near nothing. I’d never skied anything nearly so steep or imposing.

But there I was on the edge, with little choice other than to head down.

And so I did. And I made it. I didn’t style it. My turns weren’t tight, and I kept a wide berth avoiding the fall line as if my life depended on it. When I did fall, it was into a powder pocket, making for a gentle, albeit graceless, landing.

Watching Marco, I could see how it was supposed to be done. Fast and tight. He was so clearly in his element.

Later that evening, I watched some of the final Olympic events in Marco’s living room. Marco and Anna referred to many of the competitors by their first name. Occasionally, they’d grab their phones and tap out texts of congratulations or condolence.

Skiing with two Olympians didn’t exactly make me regret passing up a chance to play pickup ball with a famous Gonzaga team. I’m not at all sure it would have ended nearly as well as skiing did.

But it was a reminder of how wonderful it is to be around someone who is truly excellent at their craft. Masters, whether of skiing, basketball or guitar, are rare and inspiring.

I was happy to have skied with two pros, even if only briefly.