Michelle Kwan’s performance was perfect. The kind of perfect you usually only experience listening to Justin Timberlake’s first solo album or ordering the all-you-can-eat soup-and-salad special at Olive Garden. But even though she took second place that night at the US Championships, the Olympic Committee decided to instead take pity on Nancy Kerrigan and send her to the Olympics, cruelly discarding my beloved Michelle. So, even though Michelle had rightfully earned a spot in the 1994 games, she never even got her chance to compete! In the words of Full House’s Stephanie Tanner, “How rude!”
And that—that right there—is why I chose to root for Tonya, a knee-bashing hillbilly nincompoop, over Classy Nancy. Sure, it wasn’t Nancy’s fault that my precious Michelle was thrown under the Zamboni, but I had to take it out on someone.
Anyway, my love for both Nancy and Tonya was on thin ice after I fell under the spell of the Kwan. Going forward, there was nothing that would get in my way of watching Michelle skate. I didn’t care if there were floods, famine, or a 50-percent-off sale—if she was on the ice skating, I was on the couch watching. That was why I freaked out so hard-core when, in my very early days as a correspondent on The Tonight Show, I got the assignment of a lifetime: covering the 2002 Winter Olympic Games in Salt Lake City. Holy shitballs, you guys. Do you know what this meant? I was going to be in the same city as the Kwan at the exact moment that she would, undoubtedly, win her first Olympic gold medal.
OMG. I had to meet her. Or, at the very least, if I couldn’t meet her, I had to use the time I had on-air on NBC to make sure that Michelle Kwan knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was her biggest fan on the face of the planet.
And that’s exactly what I did. Throughout the entire Winter Olympic Games, with every segment I shot and every live toss back to Jay Leno in the studio in Burbank, I would try to include an on-air message to my Michelle. Mind you, it was nothing supercreepy. Just something subtle like, “Oh, one more thing, Jay. I just want to say a big hello to the best figure skater in the entire world, Michelle Kwan. We’re in the same city, honey—let’s hang out!”
I kept waiting for the bigwigs at NBC to tell me to cut it out, but they never did. I think they thought my pathetic pseudostalker pleas were funny. I think they hoped, too, that perhaps Michelle would actually reach out in return and we could shoot an amazing segment where she and I actually met for the first time on air. Now that would be good television!
The highlight of my experience during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City was also the low point. One of my Tonight Show producers surprised me on the day of the women’s figure skating long program competition with tickets to the big event. This was huge! Bigger than huge! This was the event where my Michelle would surely win her long-deserved gold medal, finally taking her rightful place among the ranks of the world’s best skaters. A monumental moment for her, certainly, but even bigger for me. It felt like Christmas plus birthday plus the last day of school multiplied by a bazillion.
On the day of the competition, I couldn’t even eat—that was how nervous I was to see her perform. I walked into the auditorium and immediately felt the energy. This was the Olympics. This mattered. The eyes of the world were focused on what was about to happen, and I was there to witness it all firsthand. As I took my seat and waited impatiently for the competition to start, the enormity and magnitude of the event hit me. How lucky was I? I knew for certain I’d tell my grandkids about this moment one day. Can’t you just picture it? I’d be in my rocking chair, wrapped in a cashmere shawl while sipping Ensure out of a wineglass. “Chillun, come gather ’round Pop Pop,” I’d mumble through my dentures and a Werther’s Original butterscotch candy. “I’m gonna tell you young-uns ’bout the legend of the Kwan and how I was there to see her golden moment…”
As the event began and the other skaters took their turns, I wasn’t worried. Call me biased, but this was no contest for the Kwan. I almost took a bathroom break when the USA’s Sarah Hughes took the ice. I mean, she was good and all, but she wasn’t even expected to medal. Even so, I decided to stay and support the home team.
That fucking Sarah Hughes. She was magical. She came out of nowhere and gave me chills, landing triple after triple after triple like some sort of beautiful figure skating phenom. As much as I hated to admit it, it was clear that this was a Kwan-caliber performance. The crowd was abuzz with shock and joy, counting the seconds down to the end of her program so they could erupt in applause and shower the ice rink below with roses and teddy bears. That fucking Sarah Hughes.
As magnificent as Sarah was, I wasn’t panicking. Michelle had this. All she had to do was not fall. That’s it—just give the ol’ Kwan razzle-dazzle, land her jumps, and she’d skate easily to the top of the medal podium.
To the roar of the crowd, Ms. Kwan stepped onto the rink looking even more radiant than usual. Her stunning crimson costume with gold detail was perfectly accented with her signature necklace, a Chinese good-luck charm her grandmother Yung Chun gave to her when she was just a ten-year-old girl (she never takes it off—look it up). The cheering audience went silent as Michelle took her place at the center of the ice.
As a selection from Scheherazade, the Russian symphonic suite by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, began to echo throughout the arena, Michelle began her program, gliding toward her first series of jumps. I held my breath as she launched herself into the air. Boom! She landed it! Thank God. I exhaled and wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. I felt like one of those fantastically annoying stage moms who coach their daughter’s choreography from the audience at beauty pageants (God, I can’t wait to have a daughter).
Then it was time for more jumps. Boom! Landed them again! That’s my girl! As she rounded the far end of the rink and entered the last minutes of her performance, a wave of excitement replaced my nervousness as I realized she was actually going to do this. Just two more jumps and the gold was hers!
Boom. That was when it happened.
To be honest, dear reader, if it was up to me, I’d just end the chapter right here. It’s just too painful for me to continue. I mean, I had to actually live through the experience once, and now you want me to relive it through the written word? How dare you? That’s asking a lot of a man. But ever a champion, Michelle would want me to rise above my own great pain to tell the tale of her Great Fall. And so I shall.
Yeah, she fell. And it wasn’t pretty. I suggest you look this performance up on YouTube, which I occasionally do when I’m in the mood to pair a nice Chardonnay with a freshly reopened wound. As you watch that fateful moment, listen closely and—I swear to Kwan—you can hear my horrified shriek piercing the otherwise muted gasps of the stunned crowd.
Michelle, of course, handled the fall gracefully and finished her routine like a consummate professional. I, on the other hand, completely lost my shit. The ramifications of this fall were huge. Insult to injury, the following and final skater (the aptly named Irina SLUTskaya) executed a nearly flawless performance, simultaneously securing Sarah Hughes’s gold medal win, and knocking poor Michelle down to third. Bronze? Bronze? Do you know how hard it is to coordinate an outfit with bronze? This was shocking. This was soul-crushing. This was hands-down the worst thing that had happened to me since Shannen Doherty left Beverly Hills 90210.
For the remainder of the Olympics, I was completely inconsolable. My crew tried in vain to cheer me up. The last night of the games was the worst. Not only had I not met Michelle, but her dreams of Olympic gold had been crushed.
To mark the end of the Olympics, the Tonight Show crew had a celebratory dinner at the fanciest restaurant in all of Salt Lake City. I halfheartedly mustered up the will to put together an outfit for the occasion: black from head to toe—I was, after all, in mourning. Not even a gallon of Diet Coke and an entire basket of bread could pull me out of my funk. My chicken parmesan tasted a little saltier than I would’ve liked, undoubtedly because it was seasoned with my tears.
Toward the end of the meal, our waiter approa
ched the table, no doubt to tell us about the dessert selection. Thank God. I couldn’t wait to emotionally munch the bejeezus out of a piece of carrot cake. Instead, however, he leaned down to me and whispered, “Mr. Mathews, there’s someone in the back who would love to meet you.”
Oh, that’s nice, I thought. I guess one of those cute busboys recognizes me from TV.
I followed the waiter through the kitchen, down a maze of long hallways, and through the double doors of what appeared to be an enormous private party in a fancy, exclusive dining room.
Before I could process what was happening, all eyes turned to me, and the large crowd rose from their tables and burst into thunderous applause. In a total stupor, I looked around the room and began clapping along with everyone else, having no clue what was going on. Little by little, it dawned on me that I was the reason everyone was clapping. The moment that realization sank in, the crowd parted and I saw her. As if in slow motion, she walked toward me, her ponytail swaying from side to side. She was carrying a single rose. It was Michelle Kwan.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” she said with a humongous smile. She handed me the rose. “This is for you, Ross.”
Holy fucking shit. Was this actually happening? Was I dreaming?
I took the rose. “Hi, I’m Ross.”
Laughing, she replied, “I know, I heard you were here and I had to say hi. Thank you so much for all your support.”
Then she hugged me, and as quickly as that magical moment began, it was over. I was whisked back to my table, back to the real world, and the next day back home to Los Angeles, clutching my rose the entire flight.
Who needs a stinkin’ gold medal, anyway? Sure, my Michelle never won the Olympics. Big whoop. To me, she’ll always be number one. I wouldn’t give up the memory of that night—or the rose—for all the gold medals in the world. Most importantly, Michelle taught me a valuable lesson: Winning isn’t everything. That is, of course, unless you’re my future daughter and you’re competing in a beauty pageant. Honey, don’t embarrass Daddy. Second Place is First Loser. I’ll settle for nothing less than Grand Supreme, and I’m not talking about a Taco Bell burrito.
Chapter Fourteen
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
I think you guys know by now that I would never ever say anything bad about anyone, but if you’re not totally 100 percent into the undeniable magic, wonder, and goodwill of the holiday season like I am, then, frankly, you should probably rot in hell. And if you don’t like it, you can just suck my candy cane.
Damn right, I’m holly jolly. I’m straight up Ho-Jo. I’m Ho-Jo like a Mo-Fo. I’m a Ho-Jo Mo-Fo Homo! Watch out—I could do this all night!
It really roasts my chestnuts how some people get depressed around the holidays. I’ve got so much Christmas cheer, I feel it’s my duty to pay it forward. In fact, I’m thinking of starting a hotline that bummed-out bah-humbugs and gloomy Grinches can call to get a heapin’ helpin of holiday happiness.
A recording of my angelic voice would pull them from the depths of their December despair. “Ho Ho Ho, this is Ross! Thanks for calling! Press 1 if you’re experiencing seasonal depression. Press 2 if your family is driving you crazy. Press 3 if you’re freaking out because you just ate a six-pound box of See’s Candies while watching Melissa Joan Hart in a very special ABC Family Christmas Movie about a homeless girl with a heart of gold who discovers that the Santa in the mall is her real father.”
I would watch the hell out of that movie, by the way.
I’m telling you, I love the holidays so much that if I were in charge of things, they would be celebrated all year long. You could totally observe Christmas, or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa, or whatever jingles your bell.
I just adore the holiday season. Why? Because giving gifts makes me happy, receiving gifts makes me even happier, and good old-fashioned stick-to-your-ribs kinda holiday home cookin’ makes me the hap-hap-happiest of all!
That’s why I start celebrating Christmas at 12:01 a.m. the morning after Halloween. Sure, there’s still Thanksgiving to get through, but let’s be honest—that’s kind of a faux holiday. Where are the gifts? Where are the twinkle lights? Where are the shiny decorations? I’m sorry, but a cut-out construction paper handmade into a turkey does not a centerpiece make. It just ain’t gonna cut it.
Sure, Thanksgiving food is yummy. I always spend Thanksgiving in Los Angeles and celebrate the traditional way—you know, with a turkey. The only difference is that in California, we get a free-range fair-trade fat-free turkey that was raised on an organic farm and fed the Zone Diet by biracial yoga-instructing Wiccan lesbians. Delish!
However, my favorite Thanksgiving food-related tradition is absolutely sinful. Every year I make my favorite dish in the history of the entire world, my Nana’s Famous Potatoes. Nana was my great-grandma, and believe you me, the woman knew her way around a potato. She could really take a spud for a spin! I swore on a stack of pecan pancakes that I’d never divulge the supersecret family recipe, but like the plot twist in Citizen Kane, the plot twist in The Crying Game, and the plot twist in The Sixth Sense, it’s a secret that I just can’t seem to keep (Rosebud’s a sled, she’s a he, and Bruce Willis is dead. Oops, I did it again!).
Nana’s Famous Potatoes dish is a great go-to meal that you can bust out when you want to impress your friends and family. They’re gonna love it! It’s an irresistible cheesy, potatoey, Corn Flake-y dream come true. They’re beyond addictive. If I ever end up “guest-starring” on Intervention, it’ll be because I found a way to mainline Nana’s delicious taters straight into my bloodstream. I mean, it’s not like I have a real problem, man. I could quit it anytime I want, I just don’t wanna. And once you try ’em, neither will you.
So here, available to the public for the very first time ever, is the top-secret recipe for my Nana’s Famous Potatoes on the actual recipe card my mom sent me when I wanted to make it for my friends in 2002 at my first grown-up Easter (another worthwhile holiday):
It’s good hot, it’s good cold, and it’s even better on the second day. Normally, this recipe serves eight to ten people, but if you’re going through a particularly bad break-up, it just serves one. Enjoy!
So, yes, Nana’s Famous Potatoes are a Thanksgiving highlight. But as undeniably good as the food is during Thanksgiving, you know as well as I do that, bless its well-meaning little heart, Thanksgiving is just an opening act, a pit stop on the way to the main event on December 25.
It may sound harsh, but Thanksgiving shmankshmiving. I mean, for a holiday with the word giving right in its name, there really isn’t a lot of giving going on at all. Unless, of course, you count giving yourself heartburn by eating one too many helpings of Aunt Marjorie’s greasy green bean casserole or giving your cousin Barry the stink-eye for eating the last of the pumpkin pie before you got to taste any.
Worse yet? Unlike Christmas, Thanksgiving doesn’t even have one traditional song. I dare you to name a single example off the top of your head. Mmm-hmm, I didn’t think so, Pilgrim.
I rest my case. Christmastime is awesome, no matter what you celebrate. That’s why, if I had only three wishes, along with world peace and a Friends reunion (not necessarily in that order), I would decree that all citizens of Earth celebrate the holidays every single day of the year.
Now, I know all you Scrooges are scrunching up your noses and scoffing, “Christmas year-round? Ho Ho No! That would get really old really quick. Fa-la-la-lame!”
Well, I’ve got as many arguments in favor of my mandatory Year-Round Yuletide as I have twinkle lights on my tree. So, get ready for your snow globe to be shaken and stirred, ’cuz I’m about to stuff your stocking with some festive facts!
First, until recently, the holidays were the only time of the year when Starbucks offered their famously addictive sugar-free peppermint syrup. Now, I don’t know about you, but I go frappin’ crazy for a holiday drink. I used to get so angry every January when my barista would break the news to me, “So sorry, R
oss. We don’t have sugar-free peppermint anymore. As I told you last year…and the year before…we only have it during the holidays.”
What a joke! I was irate. I wanted to personally punch the party pooper who prevented the public from perpetually purchasing pumps of peppermint! Why shouldn’t I be able to guzzle a guilt-free drink of my choice 365 days a year? But, luckily for us all, Starbucks saw the “lite,” and it now offers not only sugar-free peppermint, but many other holiday-inspired sugar-free syrups year round (including vanilla, hazelnut, and cinnamon dolce). God bless Starbucks for their sugar-free, calorie-free syrups. Seriously, they should get the Nobel Treats Prize for inventing those.
Secondly, Christmas has the very best holiday mascot of them all. Yep, it’s undeniable that Santa Claus towers over all the others, both figuratively and literally. I mean, who’s his competition: an Easter Bunny, the St. Paddy’s Day leprechaun, Cupid, and a freakin’ groundhog? Puh-lease. Sure, Santa may be pushing about four hundred pounds, but he could run laps around those lazy bums!
Think about it! Santa has given us bikes, dollhouses, train sets, and Cabbage Patch Kids. The least we could do is return the favor and give him a little more respect. I mean, seriously, after all these years, he still just has a part-time job?!? Imagine the joy he could bring to girls and boys on a daily basis. The cookie-and-milk industry would benefit as well!
But, truthfully, the main reason I’m such a sucker for celebrating this particular season is that it brings back so many wonderful memories. Growing up in the Mathews family, Christmas wasn’t necessarily about the meaning of giving or celebrating baby Jesus’ birthday. Instead, Christmas was an excuse for my parents to get festively shit-faced with their friends, neighbors, and coworkers while my brother and I watched in sheer horror.
Man Up!: Tales of My Delusional Self-Confidence Page 13
