A Field of Dreamers

The Can't Miss Kid

He was a boy unlike any other.

Everything he did on the field, he made look easy – like he was playing a different game.

He was playing a different game, and everyone loved to watch him play.

His name was Barry Durham, and as a Park City high school junior in 2001, he was one the most sought-after prep baseball players in the country. In the spring of his junior year, top college programs throughout the country arrived at Park City High on a daily basis-just to watch him practice, while the list of Major League scouts attending his games continued to grow.

Everyone wanted Barry to play for their team.

Barry was blessed with an incredible, God-given tool bag of baseball ability. He could hit with power from both sides of the plate, was unhittable as a pitcher, and could play every position on the field with the speed and athletic grace of a player well beyond his years. He had the strongest arm most people could seem to recall; was the fastest runner on the bases, and had a baseball awareness of the Game that allowed him to see situations developing before anyone else.

It could be easy to be envious of Barry, and although many a parent and player may have tried, Barry's demeanor and humble nature disarmed even his most jealous of critics. Everyone either wished they were Barry, or had a son just like him.

His talent wasn't limited to just the baseball field though; he also excelled in skiing, football, basketball, and track. Academically, he was a straight-A student; and like his accomplishments on the field, his teachers marveled at this young man-and what he may eventually come to be.

Of all the sports Barry competed in, his two passions were Baseball and Skiing. Every other activity he participated in was less a competition than a social activity that allowed him to be with his friends. Even then he was still the best athlete, and every college program wanted him to join their Program.

Equal to his reputation on the baseball diamond, Barry's other passion was skiing-specifically downhill skiing. From his earliest days, if Barry didn't have his glove and cap, then he was at the hill on his skis. Barry loved skiing, and the exhilaration of seeing just how fast he could go.

No one could keep up with Barry on a pair of skis. You might have started the run at the top of the mountain together; but once he pointed his tips downhill, it was a certainty he would always be waiting for you at the bottom. Folks say that skiing for Barry was never about competing, as much as his need to go fast. Barry just loved to let the skis run, and he always let them run right up to the point of him losing control. He had a passion for speed, and no fear for skiing on the edge.

In Barry's middle school years, a coach who ran one of the developmental ski teams at Park City learned of Barry's' talent on skis, and approached his family to see if he would like to consider joining their team. There would certainly be a tryout, of course-to make sure the coach did not over-commit to something that just wasn't there; but once the coach saw the way Barry went through the course ("like a hot-knife cutting through butter," Coach Terry Phillips says), his ascent through the downhill community was best described as meteoric.

By age 17, Barry had yet to lose any downhill competition, and his reputation had grown from the local boy on the slopes, to international status.

In the Fall of 2001, Barry was invited to join the U.S Ski Team and start training to qualify for the 2002 Winter Olympics in his home town of Park City, Utah. As the qualifying events for the Olympics began, it was all but certain that Barry would compete in the Winter Olympics in Men's Downhill; play Spring Baseball, graduate in May, and enter the Major League Baseball Draft as the consensus #1 draft pick - 1 week removed from his high school graduation.

On Thursday, December 27st, just 2 days after Christmas, Barry and his family traveled to Vail, Colorado to race in the 3rd and final event of the Olympic qualifying season. Through his first two runs of the day, he sent a shock wave through racing community by shattering the course record in his first run, and then besting it with his second run of the day. Few locals were surprised of the results though: That was Barry just being Barry – The Can't-Miss Kid.

As he prepared for his 3rd and final run of the day - it was merely a formality. He didn't need to even worry about his time - all he had to do was cruise through the gates and cross the finish line standing up: Barry's earlier runs had already qualified him a first place finish on the podium - and a coveted spot on the U.S Olympic Men's Downhill team.

But going through the motions of just finishing was a foreign concept to Barry. From his perspective, he was already there on the hill and the conditions were perfect, so why not just see how fast I can go?

He burst through the starter's gate in a flat, afternoon light, like he always did: tips pointed downhill-full speed ahead.

Over the top 1/3rd of the course, in a light snow, Barry's headphones crackled as his coach radioed him to pull back: He was already 3/10ths of a second ahead of his best time of the day, but he dismissed his coaches' instructions and blazed into the middle part of the course where the turns were a bit more open - and the speed even greater. That's what he was looking for all the time: The chance to find more speed.

A light flurry of snow can sometimes improve speed conditions, but can also alter the skier's ability to recognize the highs and lows of the terrain ahead. Barry saw no danger - he had skied fast in these conditions hundreds of times before. As he aligned his track to the approaching gate, his edge gave out, and as he attempted to correct his path, the flat light of the afternoon caused him to never see the rise rapidly approaching - and became airborne.

By the time rescuers found him less than 100 yards off course, Barry was already dead.