Molly Stone
Cambridge, MA
NYSEF, Park City, US Women’s Team
STORY PROJECT ARCHIVES – DECEMBER 30, 2012
Curator’s note – Day 2 of the Larry and Molly Stone story… today, Molly’s side.
Curator’s note (2) – If you want to watch a great documentary on the history of women’s ski jumping and especially their fight for Olympic recognition, there’s a great documentary that you can rent or buy- Ready to Fly. Both Larry and Molly are in the film. Great story, well told.
My side of the story…
The sport of ski jumping has always loomed large in my life, but my ski jumping career only spanned 8 years ranging from age 10 to age 18. My father, Larry Stone, is deeply committed to the sport and has been since before I came into his life. The sport has always been a daily part of our family’s life as my father has dedicated himself to coaching the sport. By the time I hit age 10, I think my father had given up hope that I would take an interest in the ski jumping, but, for better or worse, one day I decided to give it a try. My first jump was off of the K18 in Lake Placid. Soon after, our entire family relocated to Park City and I decided to become a real ski jumper. Lucky for me and for many other jumpers, my father was my coach.
My dad and I had many adventures together, travelling to ski jumps in North America together as well as beginning to tackle the issue of women’s ski jumping all over Europe. I’m thankful that I was able to have such unique experiences with him. I am also thankful that my father has always fought for us ladies in the sport. He has truly helped women’s ski jumping advance to the place it is today.
I have many amazing memories from my time as a ski jumper, but the first day I jumped the K120 in Lake Placid was one of the best and most terrifying days of my life. As many people who know me can attest, I was never the most courageous, daring ski jumper on the hill. Jumping that hill was something I dreamed of and dreaded at the same time. Growing up in the area, I had seen the hill a thousand times before I actually sat on the bar and put my skis in the tracks. Having my father as my coach assured me of one thing: I would never be allowed to ski that hill until I was ready. When the day finally came, I rode up that elevator with my skis in my hand watching the trees disappear below me. I was terrified, but I knew I would not be in that elevator unless it was really the time because my dad was down below ready to flag me. If he could give me the go ahead, then I knew I could do it. As I waited in line up top, I watched the other skiers make their way onto the bar and head down the hill. I put my skis on, got on that bar, dad’s hand went down, and I heard the familiar “hyup.” I stood up and did what I knew how to do. It may not have been the longest or prettiest jump that hill has ever seen, but I will never forget it. Now at age 31, whenever I drive into Lake Placid or up to the ski jumps, I have that memory tucked away inside and am so thankful for all the jumps I was able to take with my father as my coach.
