Tim Norris, who came to teach at Proctor in 1966, started coaching ski jumping in 1976. At the the same time, he established Andover Outing Club to teach young, local kids the joy of hurtling through space. Over the years, ski jumping flourished in Andover. Parent volunteers raised money and helped construct the state's finest jumps at Proctor's Blackwater, jumps that serve high schools and prep schools throughout the region. Today, New Hampshire is the only state in the Union that officially authorizes the sport.
Tim is retiring from coaching, and was honored by hundreds of friends, coaches and skiers at a gala dinner celebration at Mt. Sunapee Saturday night, as he received the John W. McCrillis Memorial Ski Award for advancing the sport.
In a letter honoring Tim, Jed Hinkley '99 observed, "During the Nordic World Championships in 2003, the Andover Outing Club was the best represented organization on the US Olympic Team--not Steamboat Springs, not Lake Placid, not Park City, but the little town of Andover, New Hampshire. This is because of Tim." Another of Tim's Olympians, Carl Van Loan '98 asserts, "It is not a coincidence that four Olympians and six National Team members came out of a tiny place like Andover Outing Club." Below, Tim poses with jumpers past and present (and proud dads.)
Tim has long motivated his charges with chocolate bars and presented awards fashioned out of paper plates. Last night, a few of his younger jumpers returned those favors.
Coaching ski jumping is an inglorious pursuit requiring long hours of slope preparation.
Last night's testimonials included Laurie Zimmerman reciting a sonnet she wrote years ago, entitled "To The Slope Raker - A Poem of Honor and Humility."
Tonight I give thanks for the man
alongside the 38-meter jump my girl flies off
in her red suit, tipped skis so high up she looks like
the blot of a cardinal spread-eagled in air, then descending,
precisely alighting on the once-ruffed path the man has smoothed
with his rake, gently settling on her skis instead of bouncing toward the trees.
I breathe thanks for the man, bundled in down vest and hood, who
trundles out after each jumper to work without fanfare, so I ring my cowbell for him and hope he can hear it. I wish
to say that though he never looks up, there's moonlight
hung like silk over his January slope, another new
year begun in muted blue fire. I give him
thanks for safe landings, for the way she
and I have just glided downhill.
