Going Downhill, Not So Fast

Tick, tick, tick. When might we expect the next U.S. medal in alpine skiing?

Through six events, Bode Miller’s silver medal in combine stands alone as the only American alpine posting. Bill Marolt, president of the United States Ski and Snow Assn., has promised 10 medals from American skiers and it’s a good thing he’s counting snowboarding and freestyle skiing toward that total.

Marolt’s snowboarders have accounted for five medals, while freestyle has chipped in two.

Americans have been a relative bust in alpine. Daron Rahlves failed to medal in downhill or super-G. Picabo Street struck out in her last race in the women’s downhill.

Caroline Lalive was expected to contend for medals in combined and super giant slalom. But she withdrew from the combined after missing a gate and finishing 17.85 seconds off the lead in the first slalom run, and in Sunday’s super-G she crashed 14 seconds into her race. Lalive has crashed or not finished in her last nine world or Olympic starts.

America’s remaining alpine hopes rest with Miller, who will be a contender this week in slalom and giant slalom. The U.S. will also gladly take credit for anything won by Kristina Koznick, who left the team to train independently.

She’ll be one of the favorites next week in slalom.

It has gotten so bad that American reporters are turning to foreigners for internal assessments.

After winning his second gold medal Saturday, Norway’s Kjetil Andre Aamodt urged Americans to keep plugging.

“Bode Miller was pretty close on my heels in the combined,” Aamodt said, “and he’s going to be dangerous in the next two events, which are his best events.”

The Mountain of Love

When volunteer gate judges Gary Wright and Jena Haldeman decided to get married at the top of the downhill course, all they had to do was find a preacher--with an Olympic credential.

Security was an obstacle since only people with credentials--issued months ago--are allowed on the Mount Ogden course. The lovebirds finally found a ski patroller who is an ordained minister.

“We intended to just escape to Las Vegas, but this is a lot more romantic,” Haldeman said before Sunday’s ceremony.

Wearing their Olympic volunteer uniforms, the couple exchanged vows, then took a trip back down the aisle--skiing down the mountain together.

Here’s the Beef

Vegetarians and other finicky eaters are starving at the beefeaters’ Olympics.

There are beef hot dogs, beef chili and even the vegetable soup is made with beef stock at the concession stands.

No veggie burgers in these mountains.

The limited menus have caused grumbling fans with rumbling stomachs.

One man yelled “I’m starving!” from the middle of a line waiting for the shuttle after a three-hour luge competition.

“Upscaling” was not part of the Olympic food plan, said Don Pritchard, director of food services. Hauling food, water and cooking equipment up a steep ski hill proved difficult and too costly.

“If people say this is basic, they are right on,” he said.

Way too basic for many.

“This is a world-class event; you’d think they could have some fish or some garlic chicken or something,” John Gould said at Utah Olympic Park. “Ten or 15 years ago you expected crummy food, but now lots of sports have upscaled it.”

Officials at Deer Valley, a resort known by foodies for such treats as soy-glazed sea scallops, were so displeased with the low Olympic standards that they set up their own food tent--offering caesar salad, turkey chili and cookies.

All venues offer nachos, soup, muffins, glazed nuts and beef products. Some of the indoor venues offer more choices, including popcorn and pizza.

Kevin Strohl, from Ohio, doesn’t eat beef. “This is cattle country here,” he said. “If we were in Lake Placid, I guarantee we’d have different things to eat.”

It’s a Tough Sell

She’s an older woman, probably in her 60s. Sweet and kindly looking, her pleasant face and white hair could make her anybody’s grandmother.

She has come to Terry Hatton’s ticket-selling business in downtown Salt Lake looking for seats for the men’s figure-skating final. Hatton tells her all he has are D-level seats--the nosebleed section. She sighs.

“They look so small from up there,” she says.

She is almost to the door when she stops and looks back.

“Interested in men’s hockey?” the woman says. “Quarterfinals. I’ve got four. A hundred-seventy-five each.”

The Winter Olympics are in town and everyone, it seems, is selling.

The woman produces her tickets, and Hatton’s partner, John Kassatz, takes a look. They’re $250 face value, but the problem is that no one knows which teams will be in which quarterfinals.

“I wish I knew who was playing,” Kassatz says, studying the tickets as though they hold the secret of eternal youth. “If the U.S. is playing, it’s a $500 seat. If it’s Sweden-Finland, I’m taking a bath.”

Kassatz looks a little longer, then says, “Terry, are we dice-rollers?” Hatton nods.

“I’ll give you $650 for the four,” Kassatz says.

Fifty dollars less than she’s asking. And $350 less than face value.

“I’ll shop around and come back,” she says.

“OK,” Kassatz quickly says. “I’ll give you $175.”

He’s going to gamble. If he gets either the U.S. or Canada, a 25% chance, he wins.

In another respect, however, Hatton and Kassatz are taking an even bigger gamble. Tickets are plentiful, but no one is buying.

Scalping is a time-honored practice at big-time sporting events, and the Salt Lake City Games are no exception. Unlike many parts of the country, scalping is legal in Utah as long as you register and get licensed by the city’s public business license department. Hatton is one of two dozen or so licensed vendors working inside a converted storefront. But for every Hatton, there are four unlicensed ticket sellers outside. And they crowd the four corners of Main Street and 200 South, the nexus of ticket scalping right in the heart of Salt Lake City.

Adolfo Corsi has come from Florence, Italy, to scalp, as he has for every Olympics since the 1984 Games in Los Angeles. His weathered face is in agony. He has never seen business so bad.

“There is nothing here,” he says. “Look”--and he waves his hands at the intersection--”100 scalpers. And no one buying.”

The previous day, Corsi patrolled the parking lot at Utah Olympic Park, site of ski jumping. It was the morning of the K120 event, what Corsi calls the “king of winter events.”

Normally, it’s a sure-fire moneymaker. Corsi was able to buy $190 tickets for $10 ... and could not resell them.

“It’s a disaster, a catastrophe,” he says.

He’ll get no argument from Malcolm. Malcolm is another veteran. He’s from Texas. A cardboard sign reading “Tickets” dangles from his neck on a piece of string.

Malcolm scalped at the Subway Series in New York in 2000, and says he was hassled by police. He too says business is lousy.

“I haven’t made any money,” he says. “The hotel is $200 a day. They’re killing me. A $30 room for a deuce. It’s a joke, man--$95 tickets are going for $20. I’m getting killed.”

Another interested party on the corner is Richard Montoya, an agent with the city’s licensing department, dressed in a blue uniform and carrying a summons book.

“They save me a lot of trouble when they knock it off,” Montoya says of the unlicensed scalpers. “That’s the purpose of being visible, to let them know I’m here.”

Standing a few yards from Montoya, Corsi is lamenting his fate when a small, scruffy, 20-something man approaches.

.

Corsi puts his arm around the young man’s shoulder and starts to steer him down the street. “Let’s take a walk over there, my friend,” he says.

It’s the Olympics. Time to deal.

Last Words

“I don’t know if there’s a worse place in sports than fourth place in the Olympics. It’s going to sting for a long time.”

Todd Hays, U.S. driver, after he and brakeman Garrett Hines finished fourth in the two-man bobsled.

“I knew I didn’t have the legs to match the other guys. I was at the back of the field hoping for an accident.”

Steven Bradbury, the Australian speedskater who went from worst to first when the other four competitors crashed ahead of him just short of the finish line in the 1,000-meeter short-track final Saturday night.

“I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. All of us realize what a hard thing she is going through.”

U.S. skier Kathleen Monahan, after teammate Caroline Lalive fell in the super-G, her third crash of the Olympics.

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Times staff writer Chris Dufresne, Newsday and the Associated Press contributed to this report.