Who knew Bill Johnson now lives in a trailer park in the shadow of Mt. Hood? I'm not really sure why I like this story. The tone is odd. It may be the simple fact that the writer didn't trash a childhood hero of mine. I was only nine years old when Johnson won gold, but I was already gaga for skiing. Come to think of it, the winter of '83-'84 was sort of a magical season of televised sports viewing, sitting on that beige and blue couch next to my older brother. Johnson's downhill victory came just three months after Flutie's Miracle in Miami.