It's all downhill from here

Tucked in my mom’s files was a newspaper clipping:

 That’s my dad, whom we all called Pop.

His name was actually John Christopher O’Neil, but he always went by Chris.

I think the clip is from the The Foothill Leader, which is/was published in Glendale, Calif. Apparently, he won a U18 ski title in California when he was a high-school sophomore, which would mean it was 1966.

I’m still not entirely sure what it was that my father won. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first, we’ve got some big-budget news on the brink of free agency.

There are lessons to be learned from Sam Darnold’s redemption arc.

NFL teams seem intent upon ignoring them, though.

The Miami Dolphins and Arizona Cardinals are not only releasing their highly drafted quarterbacks, they are doing so despite already being on the hook for their 2026 salaries.

Miami will pay Tua Tagovailoa $54 million in order for him to go away, Arizona will be paying Kyler Murray $36.8 million.

Throw in the fact that the Las Vegas Raiders will release Geno Smith despite the obligation to pay his 2026 salary of $18.5 million and NFL teams seem to be throwing around a hell of a lot of money in order for guys NOT to play for them.

On the one hand, I can see the model they’re using: Denver.

Two years ago, the Broncos released quarterback Russell Wilson two years after acquiring him.

They did this despite the fact that his 2024 salary (which was $39 million) was guaranteed. After releasing Wilson, Denver chose Bo Nix with the No. 12 overall pick and two seasons later they were one win away from getting back to the Super Bowl.

On the other hand, paying a quarterback NOT to play for you strikes me as another example of the overly emotional and utterly irrational way that NFL teams make decisions at quarterback.

Step 1: Draft a quaterback in the first round and hitch your franchise’s next three seasons to his growth and development.

Step 2: If that quarterback gets the team to the playoffs even once in the first four years, commit to a huge market-setting extension because if you don’t, it would mean you’re something less than 100-percent sold on him as the franchise cornerstone. 

Step 3: If the team and/or quarterback sputter, conclude that your quarterback’s earlier success was fool’s gold.

Step 4: Get rid of him regardless of the financial commitments you’ve already made.

It is a cycle marked by overreaction. In both directions.

If you’re the Dolphins/Cardinals/Raiders, what is the argument against keeping Tua/Kyler/Geno as the backup?

1. The fear an injury requiring multi-year recovery will trigger further guarantees;

2. Bad vibes.

The argument for keeping them:

1. You’ve already paid for their services in 2026;

2. Moving to the bench and/or playing for a new head coach has been known to change a career trajectory. Look at Darnold. Or Baker Mayfield.

3. Are you really going to get someone better? You’re going to wind up with a rookie from what is an uninspiring draft class, free agent Malik Willis, Kirk Cousins or one of these guys that another team paid to leave.

4. I’ll repeat myself: You’ve paid for their services this year.

That’s too rational, though. NFL teams prefer to be overly emotional when it comes to making decisions about their quarterbacks.

I know when my father won the ski meet: 1966.

I know where, too: Snow Summit, which is up in the San Bernardino Mountains close to Big Bear.

I’m just not sure what it was that my father won other than the fact it was a state-wide competition for 18-and-under skiers.

The victory qualified him for the U.S. Juniors Championship, according to the newspaper clip. It was in Aspen, and my dad couldn’t go because he had school.

I haven’t been able to determine the organizing body, and none of my father’s siblings seem to remember anything about the meet so I’m putting the article here for two reasons:

1. Maybe someone has an idea for where else I could look for more information on the event;

2. It makes me smile.

My father loved downhill skiing. This was not exactly intuitive.

He grew up in Montrose, Calif., an unincorporate neighborhood that is technically part of Glendale. It’s located 13 miles north of Los Angeles. He learned to ski up in the San Gabriel Mountains where there were a trio of small ski resorts.

Kratka Ridge was the one he mentioned most frequently, and he was part of the ski team there. Some of his siblings learned to ski, too, and there is a great story about the day he decided he wanted to his younger sister Trish’s skis to go off a jump. His rationale: Her skis were lighter than his so he’d be able to jump farther.

Well, he adjusted the bindings to fit his (larger) ski boots. However, the tension settings in those bindings turned out to be a problem. When he launched himself from the top of the jump, the bindings released. He lost both skis mid-air.

He tried to run out the landing, but fell in fairly dramatic fashion.

I learned to ski pretty early. I was 6, maybe 7 years old. He bought a pair of wooden skis for me at a swap meet in Klamath Falls, Ore., which is where I was born and raised.

I can’t remember if he paid $1 or $3 for those skis. I know that he bought $30 Look bindings, though. He said the wood was actually good because it would prevent me from going too fast.

My sister, Robin, used those same skis when she learned a few years later, but after a ski-school session at Mt. Bachelor, the instructor pulled my mom aside and suggested purchasing better equipment if it was at all financially possible. My mom was slightly mortified, and I remember my pop laughing as one of his friends suggested that the instructor’s hindparts might be a perfect place to stow those wooden skis.

I learned to ski at Tomahawk Ski Bowl, which was a small mountain less than an hour outside of town. There was no chair. Just a poma lift and a rope tow. A couple of times a year, we’d take a longer drive and spend a few days at Mt. Bachelor. I remember one Friday when he woke me up early, and said that instead of going to school that day, I’d go with him to Willamette Pass.

He skied in jeans that day, wearing gators below the knee to keep them from getting soaked. He had these olive green Olin Marks that were ridiculously long: 215 centimeters.

I knew my dad was a good skier. I was too young to know how good he was, though.

By the time I was approaching my teenage years, his body was failing him. He had a rare form of rheumatoid arthritis called Still’s Disease. He began experiencing exceptionally high fevers in his early 20s. He was increasingly sore, and as he progressed through his 30s, the pain became debilitating and the condition progressed to the point it became an auto-immune disorder.

He died in 1988 at the age of 38. I was 13 then, the oldest of his three kids.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever find out the details of that race he won as a 16-year-old sophomore, but I sure like thinking about him barreling down the mountain as a young man.