"The skaters were definitely the most professional act there."
-James Muir (former pro skater)
BARE
THRASHER
The finals rolled off in classic head to head duel and gruel.
Old rivalries and long comraderies saw battle.
McGill and Staab duked it out. Magnusson and Jesse went
fisticuffs. Mountain and Miller beat each other silly.
Micke Alba sparred against Mark Rogowski. Both come
from the gnarls school of skating. Malba ripped a high and
hot run with solid lines and high airs, only to draw low
scores from the judgement table. This brought loud and
instant boos. Rogowski however received a just score and
came out on top.
Lester Kasai did battle with Lee Ralph from New Zealand.
"Lest-air's" aerial wizardry could not produce the sky-
high antics to bring down this madman named Ralph, a
red-bearded animal that skates like a Tasmanian Devil,
cascading lip bombs like Niagara Falls.
Christian Hosoi was sent to challenge Tony Hawk. Hosoi
took the crowd to a place called "Air City" skating with
speed and power. He rolled out and back in off wheelies
and seared the sky. But Tony Hawk pulled out his bag of
tricks and proved his mastery of the indescribable, moves
that have too many names for this reporter to take note.
Hawk also went up againt teammate Caballero and left
the well-oiled Cob machine dry.
It began to look once again like the Hawk was unbeatable.
But then there was Chris Miller.
Miller comes from the pool school, where style meets func-
tion and function is flow and the primary question is, "How
fast can you go?" Miller is a graduate of Upland High and
an alumnus of Combi College. The Combi Pool at the Pipeline
remains one of the best, heaviest pools ever ridden by
man--perhaps that is why it remains when so many others
have passed away. Anyone who rips there can rip anywhere.
Miller brought a bit of the Badlands with him, and it
showed. He tweaked lien airs, he tweaked frontside airs,
he tweaked high and higher backside airs, one after another.
He slid lip slides the length of the ramp, then switched
directions midway through the flat bottom, then pounded
a hard fakie rock and backside ollie to make. The crowd
screamed, the crowd jumped, the crowd lost it.
But things looked bod for Miller. To win he had to beat
Hawk in two head to heads. If he lost either, it was all
over. He could not fall. Hawk is not a man who makes
mistakes.
Tony's run was avant garde. He combined lip mastery
with twist mastery in his personal loosely tight style. He
pulled an Indy air to a long grind on his front truck that
ran a good ten feet. He spun rotary McTwists that looked
more like two revolutions. He did things that shouldn't
be mentioned in mixed company. But he seemed to be
holding back. Perhaps he didn't want to fall. Perhaps it
was strategy.
Miller did not care. He had his sights set on victory. He
held nothing back, and neither did the spectators. They
let loose, he let it fly. They yelled, he excelled. Miller took
the first head, but he had to take another.
From behind eyes that held pale outlines of
sunglasses against sun-charred faces, the pros,
sponsors and their counterparts all stood. No
one could sit still. This was high action, the final
tally. Someone would win and someone would
get second place.
The Hawk eyed the ramp. He dropped in. He launched them.
He twisted them. He let them fly backside the sent them front
side. He was cool. He was calm. He was in control. He would not
fall. He would not stop blowing minds. And then, he fell. NO.
But he got back on and made up for lost time. It'd be a tough
one to beat.
Fire burned in Miller's eyes. The ramp was his. This was it. He
launched a highly boned lien and a flurry of aggressively altitudinal,
alley coped backsides. And then a backside lip slide slipped out
from under him. The crowd went wild. People ripped their hair
out. Little kids peed their pants. Miller was bock on. He was a
borreling locomotive with no brakes. He was Kryptonite
When the termites stopped flying, it was clear that either Miller
had won, or there would be a lynching of the judges by an angry
mob already pissed about bad scores. Miller took it and there was
dancing in the sand. The judges would live to see another day.
Despite complaints of a bad ramp (either the
NSA isn't asking or the skaters aren't telling):
despite a grueling head to head format (skaters
would sometimes sit for a half hour in-between
six-run volleys): despite a floor plan that, again,
limited spectators to standing room only (why
the ramp wasn't presented in the middle of the
amphitheater-like sandy seating area is a
mystery): despite the lack of cooperation with
the stubborn concessionaire (which in turn pro-
vided a lack of nourishment for the skaters, a
situation that should have been worked out well
in advance); and despite all distractions, long
hours and oversights on the part of the organizers
and sometimes lack of sight on the part of the
judges...the skaters and their fans still managed
to fuel an energy level that may have caused
many participants and spectators to walk away
from this event with a good feeling about
contests. Maybe it's a feeling that made them
forget about all the problems they had to endure.
a feeling that made them forget that skating will
not live and die by the success or failure of
contests, or the NSA.
Left to Right: Full tilt boogie, rookie pro Henry
Gutierrez hangs it out. Big feet, baggy pants and big
air by Aarron Murray, Lester Kasal picks a nostril while
hanging over the edge. Next page: The stench of a
sick stale fish hangs over the ramp in the form of
Jason Jesse.
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