(HOST) Commentator Willem Lange recalls a red-haired Italian bobsled driver who left an indelible impression.
(LANGE) After a few lean years, the United States bobsledders are resurgent, and the media have been paying attention. I spent a few winters on the Mt. Van Hoevenberg bobsled run near Lake Placid over 45 years ago, and am kind of an aficionado of the sport. That doesn’t take talent. I watched probably thousands of sleds come down that mountain.
NBC recently took a break from the races and switched to a previously produced feature. Suddenly I was looking at a familiar figure from long ago – smiling, flushed, and crowned with an unkempt mop of red hair; a short, powerful body that pushed forward, aggressively, like a hockey player’s; the slight gimp of an athlete with a game leg. I hollered to Mother, “Hey! Come look! It’s Eugenio!”
Eugenio Monti. Rosso Volante, the Italians called him – the Flying Redhead. He blazed briefly through the first year of our married life like a skyrocket, brightened an otherwise humdrum winter, and — unlike many other famous characters — left only fond memories behind.
He would have skied for Italy in the 1956 Olympics, but he tore knee ligaments in training. So he switched to Formula III cars and in the winter raced bobsleds. By February of 1960, when we met him, he was world champion.
I was the announcer at the bobrun, connected by headphones to observers all along the course. There were more accidents those days than now. I was supposed to tone down that aspect of the sport, instead advertising it as “the fastest run in the world and the only run in the Western hemisphere” which in 1960 it still was.
I liked Eugenio the moment I set eyes on him. He spoke to us peons as equals. He discovered I was in charge of the electric eye timers, and helped me tune them, which saved me a lot of running back and forth across the icy track.
He was a natural, far faster than the local champions, who trained most evenings at the Dewdrop Inn. He stopped by my sound booth one morning when my wife was there. She was six months pregnant, and a spectacular woman. So Eugenio brightened up even more than usual As he was leaving, she impulsively asked, “Would you like something Italian for lunch tomorrow?”
“Oh, si!” he cried. “Lasagna!” We had no idea what that was. Luckily, our village grocer did. We got two cans — Chef Boyardee. She heated it on the stove in my booth.
Just before race time, Eugenio passed the window. My wife rapped on the glass and he stuck his upper body in. She handed him the pot. Gulping happily, he cried, “Is good! Buta no lasagna. I lika lasagna.” He ate it all – including our lunch – dashed off, and won the race.
Eugenio left after that day, and we never saw him again. A few years ago he began to suffer from Parkinson’s disease, and took his own life. Wherever he is now, I hope he’s still racing.
This is Willem Lange up in Orford, New Hampshire, and I gotta get back to work.