A friend is gone

By Marina Knight

Every once in a while something happens that makes you stop in your tracks and for a moment the earth feels like its frenzied spin slows for a second.

This week the ski world learned it had lost one of its best friends. Paul Robbins, a prolific and widely loved writer with an encyclopedic knowledge of just about everything to do with ski racing, died Saturday at his home in Weathersfield of an apparent heart attack at the age of 68.


The news was shocking not only to other ski writers, who all held a special place in their hearts for Paul, but to the many athletes he covered.

I found out one of the worst possible ways. The news came over the radio on an early-morning VPR report. It seemed surreal. “Wait,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Did they just say Paul Robbins died?”

I listened, hoping I had misheard. But I hadn’t.

Shocked, I instantly tried to call my husband, who was very fond of Robbins, but he didn’t pick up the phone. I was glad because I didn’t want to be the one to break the news.

Paul had a heart the size of Texas. He was able to make connections with everyone he met and his good-natured, warm way of being was something you just don’t come across very often.

He worked tirelessly and truly loved not only the sports he covered but also the people. Of all the sports writers I’ve met, Paul by far and away had the most compassion for the athletes he wrote about. He strove to spread his passion for the sport by telling stories about its athletes, and the sport is better for the work he did. The athletes knew him, they always took calls from him and — I think it’s safe to say — always felt better about themselves or life in general after talking with him.
That’s how I felt about him. We met maybe five years ago in Beaver Creek. I was in the press room with my husband, who was sneaking onto the Internet, when a voice came up from behind and said, “Hey, Chip, how ‘bout those Sox?”

Chip spun around with a grin and the two chatted on and on.

After they had figured out the best possible starting line-up for the next year’s Red Sox, I was introduced.

Paul loved that Chip was dating a “real” Vermonter, and loved that I was covering my first World Cup as a reporter.

From that moment on I had a friend in the pressroom. While other journalists were aloof, Paul was friendly and helpful and made me feel like I had been there for years. It was clear that he was well-liked and respected, so it made you feel good that he knew your name and even knew a bit about you.

At the Olympics in Torino we rode a few buses together and our computers were side by side in the pressroom. If I ever had a question, like who was on the podium in the slalom in Nagano 1998 or who won at Sestriere last year, I didn’t look it up. I just asked Paul.

We talked about the Vermonters competing in the Olympics that year and about their performances leading up to the games. He knew way more about them than I did, including even my own husband.

I was in my mid-20s, ecstatic to be covering my first Olympics. It must have been Paul’s eighth Olympics, he in his mid-60s, but sitting there next to him I had a hard time telling who was more excited. I’m pretty sure it was Paul.

Paul, you’re one of a kind. We will miss you dearly.