From the Archive: February 21, 2018 (Kikkan and and Jessie Win Olympic Gold)

This article first appeared in the 2018/2019 edition of the BNS Magazine. Chad Samela recounts his experience as an NBC sports commentator the night Kikkan Randall and Jessie Diggins made U.S. cross-country skiing history, winning Olympic Gold in Pyeong Chang, Korea.

Chad Salmela is a renowned coach, sports commentator, and former professional biathlete, now serving as the High-Performance Manager of Team Birkie. Known for his passionate connection with athletes and the nordic skiing community, Salmela transitioned from a successful international biathlon career, representing the U.S. in the World Cup and Winter Olympics, to sports commentary, becoming a fan favorite with his energetic style and expert analysis. In addition to his role at Team Birkie, he continues to coach the men's and women's cross-country teams at The College of St. Scholastica, where he has built a strong, enduring program.

By Chad Samela

The moment began in Alaska years ago, in Minnesota, fewer years ago. It grew out of familial attitudes and family outings, loving rather than loathing winters, high school huddles and relay tags, bus trips, and crockpot team dinners. The moment grew out of a love of skiing, turning into something more of a lifestyle. Eventually, racing skis was fostered and mentored by the many in their lives who have felt the same joy of gliding on snow and of the sensations of frozen air in the nostrils and lungs, the pent-up nerves of putting on a number and being timed by a stopwatch or computer with a starter telling them to go. It grew from a force of parents, coaches, and teammates who buoyed these two super-beings to a true moment of destiny for them both. These two. Largely and historically a journey of solitude, that evolved into a group who could, in their blood, see it, feel it, touch it, and believe it. That moment, the collective force of everyone on that pathway through their lives landed on the shoulders of these two. A team, within a team, within a team, within a nation.

And I got to call it. Wow. One could live three lifetimes and never get a moment like that again.

For 42 years, popular American history of the United States and Olympic cross-country ski racing was summed up in two words: Bill Koch. It would be dismissive to prescribe those decades to a Bill-Koch punchline, whilst over that time, lots of honest, good people tried their darndest to win or help win American Olympic ski medals. A host of detailed internal and external factors as to why no American had won said medal has been battered around ski shops and over beers at bars during U.S. Nationals in towns like Rumford, Anchorage, Biwabik, Truckee, Lake Placid, Heber City, and Houghton, or at Telemark Lodge and the Sawmill on Birkie weekends for every single one of those 42 years. It could fill encyclopedic volumes if anyone had taken the initiative to file them. But unless you were an insider, all you likely ever heard, if anything at all, about U.S. Olympic cross-country skiing was Bill Koch.

It was with an encyclopedic life in U.S. skiing jammed between my ears, and a true and believing heart full of those 42 years of waiting, that I awoke at 10:00 p.m. from my restless day's sleep. I was 46 years, 118 days old, that night I sat down in my chair in a studio sound booth in Stamford, Connecticut, next to a guy who'd lived the very journey we're discussing, undeniably the topic of conversation at times in those bars, in those towns. I'd spent all but 11 of those 46 years and 118 days involved in some way with ski racing. I don't know how old Torin was that day, but one can assume a similar statistic, considering he is a four-time Olympian and World Cup podium skier for the U.S. I could tell we both believed it that night.

We had our production meeting sometime around midnight. We checked in with the venue and our field reporter, Abby Chin, to see what the event felt like. By that morning, I'd long gotten over that I was not sent to cover the Olympics in Pyeong Chang. It initially pained me to know that after three Olympic tours with NBC, my lifetime commentator moment might come to a middle-of-the-night call in a foam-lined black booth on an NBC sound stage in Stamford. A very unsexy place to take in the Olympics.

The production meeting talking points were reminiscent of that in Sochi on individual sprint day, in a booth at the finish line at Laura XC Center, 20 feet behind the vantage points enjoyed by the likes of Bjorn Daehlie, Vladimir Putin, and the kings of Norway and Sweden. This setting was far less scenic, regal, and exclusive, but the vibe was the same as Kikkan [Randall]'s expected medal in Sochi. At Laura, we talked on headsets with our producers down in Sochi, seeing the fans roll in, feeling the sun's rays, soaking in the Olympics. In Stamford, we ate late-night pizza and Dunkin' Donuts, and the inevitable questions came to both Torin and me. They haven't won a medal yet. Why not? Is this reeeeeally going to happen?

We went to the booth, got prepped. Torin had talking points both on sticky notes and in his head. We called the semifinals. That's when I knew. But you never really know. A broken pole. A tangle and subsequent surge from the front. But watching the semifinals and looking at what the U.S. did to Norway on time, they were going to medal, and they were the favorites to win it. Torin and I agreed. Our producer and Steve seemed to sparkle a bit at our confidence. We collectively sensed a moment coming.

We all watched, and we all know what happened. I get goosebumps right now as I write this and remember it. Jessie [Diggins]'s second lap was brilliant, more so than gets talked about after the fact. Looking back, I feel that up the hill out of the stadium on her second lap was where Jessie began to win the race—where she began to break Stine. That night, I gained a whole new appreciation for Jessie beyond just being tough as nails. In Maine, they'd say she's wicked smart.

I was so happy for Kikkan when she exchanged the last time. She'd done her bit, struggling much of the season with a foot injury like several years ago and using the races leading up to the team sprint to polish up her race fitness. She'd done it before, but wow, that was cutting it close! As Kikkan tagged Jessie, I thought briefly of Sadie [Bjornsen], and how hard it must've been for her despite it being also wonderful at the same time. I remember the thought flashing through my head that she'll have her moment, too. But mostly, as my train of consciousness became words into a microphone, I hoped that I at least captured somewhat, how poignant a moment it was for Kikkan, on the Klaebobakken for the last time this Olympics, intact with the leaders, for the last Olympic minute of her storied career. She'd clawed her way to that moment and set it all up. I lose my goosebumps and tears form, knowing what we all know now, that her moment finally came. I fear I didn't do it justice in the moments I had to speak of it. The only word that comes to mind is champion.

As the roars rattled around the cross-country stadium in Pyeong Chang, I think I stood up. Maybe I didn't. Hard to remember. Ask Torin. I don't remember what I was thinking, but on the apex of the stadium turn, my heart sank briefly as Jessie was pushed outside by Stine, like, so close, on so many occasions. Stine. Then came Diggins. Four yeses and a very hoarse gold. And the rest, as they say, is history.

I came back to earth as Kikkan landed on top of Jessie, and Steve placed the moment in the context of Olympic history. I remember saying, "It's gold, it's gold!" But what came out was one "Gold," and then a high-pitched something that in my head was "It's gold!" but was really just 42 years welled up inside me, blowing right past the speed limit of what my unusually strong voice could handle. I get a bit embarrassed listening to what came out as opposed to what I thought I said. It proves that sometimes we don't even have control over our best moments. What came out, I think, was much better than what I was thinking I said. Maybe, as Gummi Ben in Iceland (look him up) likes to say, who was writing this script? Apparently not my voice and mind together. But to be clear, I've never had a moment like that in a booth and likely never will again, where I think I completely lost myself in the moment and didn't even remember it right. I was close to as thrilled calling Lowell Bailey's dramatic win at World Biathlon Champs in 2017. But I have no doubt that the one thing I will likely be best known for by those not close to me is something I lost control of and will never ever be able to replicate sincerely for the rest of my days. And that's a good thing.

We wrapped up and came off the air. I stood up for sure this time—I remember—arms in the air and let out a scream. We were off-air, but the mics were still open. Somebody at NBC edited that scream into one of the highlight reels, and, of course, it embarrasses me to hear it. But it felt so good. That moment. I think so many of us felt that good.

Our crew lingered a bit to revel in the history made. We talked a bit about how we called it, and I, of course, got self-conscious and maybe defensive all at once. Maybe I'd gone too far? My producer assured me not. He told me it'll be big. I wasn't sure about that, but I hoped it helped our sport.

I walked out of the booth into the antiseptic, black, dense quietness of the sound stage, and as I emerged near the front from behind the rows of sound booths, the four sound techs gave me an ovation. I felt much better, and I teared up a bit. Those four, our producer, his assistant, Torin, Steve, and me, and probably a few people in the main control room, are the only people on earth who heard that call live. I walked through a relatively quiet middle-of-the-night-but busy NBC Sports studios and offices to our workroom, grabbed my stuff, caught the bus to my hotel, went to my room, noticed it was approaching 4:30 a.m., and laid down to sleep in the finest of satisfied moods. It wouldn't air in the U.S. for hours. Around 9:30 a.m. I was awoken by a buzz on my phone. Then another. Then another. It continued like that for about 3 days unless I shut the phone completely off. Apparently, it worked for people.

I've been an athlete or coach most of my life, and it's honestly hard to reconcile how I feel about my role in the moment. I see myself as a coach who does some skiing and biathlon commentary. I hold the athlete experience, effort, and sacrifice in near-religious regard. I am obviously thrilled that my part in the moment resonated with so many people and that I am somehow linked to the moment. But really, the coach in me only cared about their reaction. It was their moment for America. They didn't invite me to it. They were going to be stuck with whatever I did. So when I got this text at 10:16 a.m. on February 21st, I was fulfilled:

I will have this text for the rest of my life.

Our sport in our country is forever changed by February 21st, 2018. It was going to be special without any words, let alone some dude going spastic over it. It meant so much to so many, past, present, and future. I understand and fully appreciate what had to go into creating the moment as a nation, as a sport organization, a team, and as individual athletes, and I appreciate I had little-to-none to do with it. I was a passenger, at the right place and at the right time, and lucky me to get to call the race for American TV. I've since contemplated all of the ways I could've been much worse in the booth for something so special. I think about the experience I've had that perhaps manifested a better call than I may have been capable of at another time. I think about all the chances for the first medal to come at a different time and in a different fashion. In the end, it wasn't the way I'd wanted it in Sochi; in the stadium, reveling in the sunshine as Kikkan won the sprint gold, amid the fanfare and Olympic spectacle, celebrating at medals plaza like we did for Billy and Johnny and the crew in Vancouver. How it went for me wasn't sexy and far from glitzy. But how it went for me isn't at all important. How and when it happened was how and when it happened, and I wouldn't change any of it for the world.

One could live three lifetimes and never get a moment like that again.