it was, it didn't matter now. During the power dinner, Luigi
Yutz tilted up his nose, sniffed the air, leaned over to his
brother and whispered, "There's-a trouble on-a my foot."
"You think-a so?" Brad Yutz expressed concern. "We
should-a be watching our steps from here on-a out-a.""
TWO STEPS AHEAD OF THE GAME: The Odeum, a
large arena in Villa Park on the outskirts of Chicago, was
being converged upon by the alluring aroma of sweaty
kneepads and unwashed skate shorts. Behind this smell
was the grinding and power flailing forces of the
perpetual destroyers of hotels and supporters of lunatic
youthful mayhem-namely, professional skateboarders.
The occasion was the Chicago Shootout Pro Streetstyle
Skateboard competition, sponsored by the NSA. The net
ticket proceeds would be donated to the McGaw YMCA
skatepark. HISTORIC FUNK: Practice for the competition
was supposed to happen at nine in the morning on
Friday, September 1st, but the exotic ramps for the
course weren't yet completed, so it didn't
happen until much later. Luigi and Brad
Yutz took the opportunity to stroll the
premises and examine the ramps and
faces. First, they noticed the course's
pivotal structure which lay dead center on
the smooth, fast cement arena floor. NSA
strong arm Don Bostick was said to have.
dubbed it the Death Star. "Luigi, will-a
you lookit that-a funny looking thing."
Brad said, reaching into his back pocket
for the fluorescent comb he used to ar-
range the unscented axle grease in his
hair. "It's-a strang-eoli, all-a right-a.
Looks-a mighty fine for the the high
speed-a front-a-side and-a back-a-side
carves, not to-a forget the one-a-foot-type
helicopter things and-a ramp-a-to-ramp-a
transfers, a 180, 360 and-a mebbe the
540 airthings even," articulated Luigi. ♦
Wandering in a tight circle, they intro-
duced themselves to many of the im-
portant personalities on hand. There.
was Ivan Hosoi, who they believed was
descended from the Hosoianchi family.
an Abruzzo clan of rebellious artists
who escaped the boot from the Far
East during the Crusades in the late
Middle Ages. They remain the stuff of
legends. They met the quizzical man
known only as B. Ware, who ex-
pounded many founded and un-
founded words of wisdom. There was
Todd, the Potato of the Couch, who
saw everything and knew everyone,
all without letting on. There was Tom Cozens, the
unmenacing yet potentially dangerous protectorate/near-
fearless hand-to-hand combat and demolitions expert,
and spokesperson of the NSA. There was Sir Bill
Thomas, the 35mm lensman and midnight assassin who.
under the severe tauntings and verbal abuse of No Name
The Rude Intruder, prepared to perform above and
beyond the call of duty. But it was C.R. and Fitz who
reminded Luigi and Brad of this date's significance. "It
was fifty years ago at 4:45 in the morning on this very
day in 1939, without a declaration of war, mind you, that
Germany invaded Poland." Fitz offered. "Oh-migosh!"
cried Luigi. "You're-a pullin' ma leg." Brad said unbeliev-
ingly. Strange sounds blasted through the loudspeakers
and the skaters assaulted the course, riding as if inten-
ding to destroy each and every structure. The four-foot
high, sixteen-foot wide, eight-foot transition ramp was
slashed so hard it kept creeping into the barricades.
In the opening spread, Christ (left) thrusts
off the transitional quarterpipe and Mark
Partain (right) slash grinds the rear vertical
wall. Poised like a Stuka dive-bomber, Jeff
Hartsell (facing page) rotates downward.
Clockwise from Top: Jason Lee zings one
over the Death Star. Pero Rojo and Oster flex
amid a cluster of local studdlies. Tom Knox
nabs high honors, Sonja Catalano looks on.
81