Frozen in the Record Books

For many years the alarm clock sounding at 4 am and the cold wind blowing through his bedroom window had brought an exhilarating rush of blood into every pore of Jim Lombolardo’s body.

He couldn’t wait to get out on the frozen isolation of Lake Placid and put skates to the polished surface preparing for the routine that he felt would lead him to the fulfillment, fame and fortune that only achieving his lifelong goal would bring.

In fact, he had slowly chipped away on his path to greatness in every performance he could enter for the past 10 years. He had drawn upon every inch of spirit within him, shattering the records of such greats as Button, Boitano, Stojko and Curry.

To add to his greatness,the drive and finesse with which he had easily beaten Kurt Browning’s first landing of a quad in competition five years ago drew global praise and recognition. Even more amazement came from all quarters of the professional community as he again repeated the remarkable feat three times in the next three years.

Then, on a fateful October morning five years ago, he decided to celebrate his latest victory with a solo motorcycle ride along the roads winding their way like twisted dragons through the Adirondacks.

The frost still remained on the surface from the night before and his bike skidded on the remnants of black ice, tossing his body like a rag doll against an outcrop. The world-class ice master found himself laid up in a local hospital bed for three months with a leg smashed in three places.

His doctors said, "An extreme bit of luck and a near miracle will allow you to walk again without assistance, let alone skate."

But Jim refused to give up, pushing himself to exceed every rehabilitation goal set for him.

Within two months the ace of the skates walked out of the hospital without a cane or wheelchair. Three months later he once again began practicing his signature moves.

Now he set his sights on the pinacle by which he intended to measure his success as a skating legend.

Over the decades, the ultimate–the quintuple had eluded him. This jump--the most dangerous and, supposedly, impossible–five-rotation leap–had escaped not only from his grasp but also from that of every single skater in every worldwide competition.

Although he had accomplished the feat several times, but only as a legend in his own mind during solitary practice sessions. He had, in reality, come extremely close but never fully executed the move.

Now 35 years old, barely recovered from a near career-ending injury, and probably physically more ready to close out his life on the skating circuit than to continue the nearly impossible quest, he saw the ultimate slipping more quickly away every time he got onto the ice.

His hopes for greatness began disappearing at increasing speed with each flexing of his tired muscles. Yet, he continued to pull his scarred and beaten body out of bed at 4 o’clock three mornings every week during the increasingly more glacial Placid winters.

I dream almost every night that nothing stands in my way and this time I get what I

have set my sights on practically my whole life, he told himself as he limbered up and rushed onto the wintry floor beckoning to him–one last attempt–one last try.

Then, just as he glided onto the ice, the abandoned hunting cabin that had stood darkened at the edge of the lake during each of his practice sessions suddenly took on an effervescent glow. Its appearance surpassed that of the most brightly illuminated arenas in the hundreds of international venues he had graced with his skills.

The skater skidded up to the entrance of the cabin and threw open the door. To his amazement, he discovered a huge hole in the middle of the floor from which emanated a blinding light–like a sparkling circle of diamonds.

He found himself drawn toward the opening as if pushed by an irresistible force and peering deeply into the crevice for the source of the glaring brightness.

Suddenly, an eerie and gravelly voice bellowed out to him, “Jim, I alone hold the key that can finally return you to your championship status and bring you the eternal fame you have pursued so long. I offer you the chance to truly attain that which you seek without once again slipping back into second-tier status. All you have to do is sign this simple contract.”

The more visible portions of the simple contract, written in large, bold-faced script, promised to endow him with the extraordinary energy, stamina and iron will he needed to make the elusive five-loop jump.

Written in much smaller, barely-decipherable lettering was a pledge to the co-signer of the contract–a promise to be sealed for the rest of eternity.

The signature of the second signatory to the agreement, written in code, said ”Triple

Sixes”, “Champion of Darkness,” “Prince of the Underworld.”

The skater had some idea of the bargain that awaited him if he agreed to the co-signer’s terms, but the temptation was too great.

He scrippled his name on the dotted line and rushed back onto the lake, which, strangely, had been transformed into a competition arena--with only himself and three judges urging him to make his special attempt.

Jim took off at top speed and miraculously nailed the five midair rotations with surprising agility that somehow came from deep inside his battle-scarred body.

He landed safely, but quaked in fear as he accepted his gold medal on the award platform. He knew the price of his victory and feared the imminent fulfillment of the contract.

The skater suddenly blanked out.

After he opened his eyes he lay in his bed, not facing the hell and brimstone of the eternal reward that he had expected.

His wife shouted, “Wake up, wake up. You were screaming something about the quintuple and some kind of contract. You need to do something about these nightmares.”