We’re back. Most of us are. Or soon will be.
Back in the ski shops, back at the ski swaps, back on the chairlifts, back in the tram crowds, back in the mid-mountain warming huts, and back in the cafeteria lines. Back so much that we sound like a breathless Chris Berman, with his ESPN back-back-back description of an outfielder trying to gauge whether he is chasing a long fly out or a home run.
It’s been a long way back. Some of us skied last year, substituting a parking-lot lawn chair for the ski lodge, riding the lifts only with blood relatives, fogging our goggles with face masks, or saying, to hell with it and just strapping on our boards and heading downhill. But a lot of us took a year off; it’s as if an entire swath of the ski population had Tommy John surgery and sat out the festivities until, like a pitcher treating a torn ulnar collateral ligament inside the elbow, we were convinced that the ski scene had restored stability and enhanced its range of motion.
The spring season was full of newspaper and television reports on how we changed and what we learned during our coronavirus confinement. This column is not a reprise of that theme.