In these days of mergers and accusations, I’ve come to the conclusion that I, too, would be down for a deal. And this one is open to all comers, so pay close attention ’cause I could really use your help.
Here it is: I need an ollie.
I have one now, but it sucks—a stiff and tender-footed Ugg boot of a capital “O.” Plus, I have to very deliberately wind up for this sad hunk of crap if I’m even going to think about getting up onto the smallest of step-ups and ledges—an over-aggressive hunch that begs for the equally explosive pop that never comes.
Jovantae Turner steps up to the earliest foundations of scrapeboard trickery and kicks a hole in the atmosphere. Photo: Tobin Yelland
Instead, my back foot wanders stupidly about an inch above the tail and my back wheels lag well below their destiny. My ollie is an ill-timed beast that robs me of my imagined upward mobility—its low-riding, meandering lot keeping me from even its own basic utilities, offering me nothing but grief as I plead with it to bring me to the low lip of some beginner box or out of the canyon-like depths of the great American curb cut. “Ha,” it says. “I make you look laughable.”
I’m uncomfortable with this.
Lift, fold, and separate. Alan Gelfand floats his own invention into an absorbent, no-hands future. Photo: Glen E. Friendman
After all these years of dealing with it, I’ve decided to scrap the whole project and test the market for something new. An ollie that comes unconsciously, one that elevates me from the middle of the gravel-y netherworlds and up to smoother plateaus, one that can literally raise me over whatever I see—even invisible stuff. That’s what I want.
So, like I said, I’m ready to do business. I’ll willingly part with a few of my resources for your ollie. At the top of the list of my many virtues is a willpower that allows me to read periodicals from back to front without flinching; I have a seldom used fight-or-flight mechanism that the doctor assures me is in good working order; I’ve even got two years of college Spanish I’d be willing to part with. Bottled-up cynicism, a disturbingly accurate sense for the proper use of a thumbs-up, and the ability to hold down barf in public places. I’d even throw in my clockwork drowsiness that comes halfway through every single car ride—that last one’s actually pretty sweet. But really, any or all of these things are yours, and I’ll pay for the shipping within the 48 congruous states. I just need what you got, what seems to come so easy to you, the staple of your existence. Your ollie.
Arc of the fundament. Mark Gonzales pilots a Gordon Lightfoot at sundown. You better take care. Photo: Grant Brittain
Why don’t you just slash, slappy, and bonk on over here as quick as you can? On your way, get used to the weight of those surface-bound moves, because that’s what you’ll have after our little deal—a tonnage of centrifugal force pulling you to toward the center of the earth with your every ollie attempt. I, on the other hand, will have your magic carpet, your 21 Jump Street, your Gordon Lightfoot.
Think about how much use you’ve gotten out of your ollie—I’m thinking a bit too much. Am I right? Since the first day you stepped on a board, you’ve worked to perfect the timing—the method—nursing that baby into the sharp, all-terrain beast it is today. But are you really getting as much out of your ollie as you’ve put into it? I mean, at the very least you’ve gotta be tired of it, right? Surely you’ve considered leaving it behind before, maybe to work on your tranny skills, skate pools, drop in on vert.
Well, after we trade, you’ll have plenty of time to devote to figuring out skateboarding’s other avenues. Learn to turn, slide, manual, and thrust up past 11:30. Get boneless, hippy jump, roll straight off curbs, cultivate your inner streetplant repertoire. Do a frickin’ coffin at midnight down some random hill. There’s a lot more to skateboarding than your precious little ollie.
Nick Boserio jumps at the chance to descend into the steep side of life. Photo: Matt Price
That said, I still want to make yours mine. Did I mention, mine sucks?
Drop me an e-mail or something. Shoot me a fax.
Then say goodbye to your little friend.
Oh, to sweeten the pot, I’ll throw in some male pattern baldness at no extra charge. Just my little way of saying, “Thanks.”
It’s the least I can do.
Click here to listen to The Good Problem Playlist 8/2/20: 22 Good Songs For Problematic Times, and follow The.GoodProblem on Spotify.
Please feel free to share freely.