I stand at the top of the 70-meter jump in Calgary, wind biting through my thin suit. Below, the hill drops like a cliff, the snow glittering under floodlights. The crowd is silent—waiting for me to fail. I’ve dreamed of this moment since I was a kid, jumping off trash cans in Chelmsford, pretending I was flying. Now, I’m here. Not because I’m the best. Not because I deserve it. But because I refused to stop asking.

My skis tremble. My breath comes fast, wheezing in the cold. I check my goggles—fogged at the edges. The officials wave. It’s time.

I take a deep breath. This isn’t about distance. It’s about finishing. About not falling. About proving that someone like me—a plasterer with asthma, no funding, no coach—can stand here, at the Olympics, and try.

I push off.

The world blurs. Wind screams. I’m airborne. For a second, I’m flying. Then the landing hits like a truck. I tumble, skis clattering, body rolling in the snow.

Silence.

Then—cheers. Not laughter. Applause. I rise, dazed, raising a glove in thanks. I didn’t win. I didn’t even place.

But I jumped.

Now, the media swarms. Cameras flash. A reporter shoves a mic in my face: 'Eddie, was it worth it?'