I'M ON THE OLYMPIC TEAM? BUMMER!

The party is taking off, but Danny Kass is nowhere to be found. At Trax, a
dance club on a Bend, Ore., highway, a couple hundred snowboarders are
unwinding while a band called Red i Rider pumps out its own twisted brand
of rockabilly, a twangy cover of Ice-T's "Cop Killer," the drummer pounding
out the beat wearing a sequined face mask that's two parts Hannibal Lecter,
one part Liberace. It's a snowboarder's nirvana -- $1.50 Buds, cute local
girls and a band so loud you can't hear yourself think.

"It's got kind of a freaky vibe, and it's only going to get freakier after
it breaks up here and heads to the strip club next door," says Amen Teter,
general manager of the Palmer Snowboard team. "You won't find a party like
this at the Olympics."

This Saturday-night party is the social highlight of the Mount Bachelor
Grand Prix, the third of five qualifying events that will determine which
American men and women will compete in the halfpipe snowboarding events --
in which riders launch themselves out of a 400-foot-long, 15-foot-high
open-topped snow tunnel, twisting, flipping and spinning as they go -- at
the Olympic Winter Games starting in Salt Lake City next week.

Most of the riders partying tonight were eliminated in the afternoon's
qualifying rounds. The finals of the Mount Bachelor event will be held
early Sunday morning. Since most of the world's top riders are American,
the field tomorrow will be deeper and the competition tougher than at the
Olympics, and all remaining contenders have long since waxed their boards
and tucked themselves safely in bed.

There is, however, one finalist whom everyone expects to see at the party:
Kass, the best American halfpipe rider, famous for showing up with a
hangover and winning anyway. But he is conspicuously absent. Other members
of his posse are here, indulging in cheap beer, lap dances and
postadolescent pranks; one of them will later fall asleep in their rented
S.U.V. and wake up to find his sweatshirt on fire. But no Kass.

Did the 19-year-old star find a better party somewhere else? Nope. He, too,
turned in early. Was this Kass's secret pre-Olympic training regimen? Not
exactly. "We forgot our ID's," admits Curt Morgan, a young filmmaker and a
good friend of Kass's, "and we didn't think we'd be able to get into the
strip club."

Fake id's or not, it's Danny Kass's world, and everyone else is just riding
in it. As he's loosening up in the ski-area cafeteria the next morning
before the finals, Kass summons a white-haired volunteer from the
registration desk.

"Is there drug testing today?" he asks.

"Yes, I think so," the lady replies sweetly.

"Are they testing for S.T.D.'s?"

Kass's joke goes right over her head. "I don't know; I'll go find out," she
says, as Curt and Danny chuckle conspiratorially on their way out the door.

This weekend's drug testing is just a symptom of the controversy that is
plaguing the selection process for the United States Olympic snowboard
team. At its center is a longstanding dispute between the International
Snowboard Federation, a loose, rider-driven group that runs the most
popular events in American snowboarding, and the Federation Internationale
de Ski, or F.I.S., the Swiss-based governing body of international skiing
that was given authority over Olympic snowboarding by the International
Olympic Committee.

While most sports have to lobby long and hard to earn Olympic status, the
I.O.C., seeking to enhance the Winter Games' youth appeal, courted
snowboarders for the last games, in Nagano, Japan. But the committee
insisted that riders submit to its rules, and that grated. It tried to
impose a schedule composed exclusively of F.I.S. events -- in effect, a
coup against the International Snowboard Federation. When the riders
rebelled, the committee backed down a bit, requiring F.I.S.-sanctioned
events only for Olympic qualifying.

The committee also insisted that the riders attend the games as a team, as
the skiers do. But snowboarding culture is individualistic, a far cry from
the jockish ski world. The riders' primary allegiance has always been to
their sponsors, not to a team. The I.O.C. "just doesn't seem to get the
fact that it's an individual sport," says Jake Burton Carpenter, owner of
Burton, the world's largest snowboard equipment company and a pioneer of
the sport.

Snowboarding's debut four years ago at Nagano was less than auspicious. The
first Olympic snowboarding gold medalist, Ross Rebagliati, was almost
stripped of his medal after testing positive for marijuana. (It was
determined that he had merely inhaled secondhand marijuana smoke.) And
because of this, the weather and more controversial behavior by the
snowboarders, the sport got only slightly more prime-time coverage than
curling.

The riders weren't stoked either. Shannon Dunn, who won a bronze medal in
the women's halfpipe, shudders as she recalls her Olympic culture shock.
"We had the most hideous outfits: pegged jeans that go above your belly
button, cheesy cowboy hat, burgundy old-lady pumps," Dunn recalls. "I was
rooming with Cara-Beth Burnside, and we went to breakfast wearing our own
clothes. We had done, like, the worst thing. Big taboo. Everyone just
stared us down. And then the coaches are like: 'You just have to wear the
outfit. You're on the U.S. Olympic team."'

And the dance continues this time around. Riders resent being forced to
compete in F.I.S. events, which they loathe for everything from the judging
to the random drug testing to the lame music played at the halfpipe. To
have a shot at the Olympic Games, however, they know they have to play
along. But then, do they really need the Olympic Games?

The Olympics aren't nearly as important to snowboarders as to, say, speed
skaters, for whom they're the only thing. You won't find any snowboarders
retiring after winning a medal, and their prime audience of rad teenagers
cares even less about the Winter Olympics than they do. Nevertheless, the
riders and their agents understand the potential rewards. While they remain
dubious about the ultimate payoff, they can't quite escape the idea that an
Olympic snowboarding gold medal might just put them on a Wheaties box.

The men's finals are about to begin, and Mount Bachelor is blanketed in a
layer of fog and misty rain that will make this already dangerous sport
that much riskier. While other riders are talking strategy or fine-tuning
their boards, Kass is perched on the edge of the halfpipe, playing with the
remote control on his minidisc player so that just the right music -- Minor
Threat? Fifteen? Snoop Dogg? Celine Dion? -- will be pumping through his
camouflage headphones when he drops in for his first finals run. Enveloped
in a black jacket that looks three sizes too big, the five-foot-seven-inch
Kass is still the same kid who started riding in baggy jeans at New
Jersey's Vernon Valley/Great Gorge seven years ago. If he weren't at the
top in a sport that's white-hot in the marketing world right now, he'd
probably be just another former class clown, working in a snowboard shop
for minimum wage. But instead he has a seven-figure income, his own
glove-and-accessories company with a stable of sponsored riders and a
bad-boy image that is the envy of any marketer in America. Not bad for a
guy who only a few years ago was hiking the pipe at Stratton Mountain in
Vermont so he wouldn't have to pay for a lift ticket.

Whether it's the music, the weather or too much sleep the night before,
Kass's first run of the finals is decent but uninspired, and he finds
himself in seventh place. "On a scale of 1 to 10, my stoke level was like a
2," he says. And as far as the Olympics are concerned, he's playing with
house money. Riders are selected on the basis of their two best finishes in
five events leading up to the games. Win twice and you're automatically in.
Kass already has one victory, so he needs only one more big run to get to
Salt Lake City.

His second run isn't that, but it demonstrates why he has won virtually
every big contest he has entered over the last year and is a favorite for
Olympic gold. He doesn't win; he "sketches out," catching his heel-side
edge on the lip of the halfpipe on his way down, almost falling and ending
any chance of a decent score. But instead of just riding it out to the
bottom, Kass recovers his balance and casually launches a front-side 1080
- -- three full revolutions 10 feet above the pipe. It's the toughest move in
snowboarding, and Kass sticks it, even though he lost considerable speed
when he sketched out. He's the only competitor to complete the move all
weekend. That one spectacular trick is far from enough, though, and he
settles for 13th place.

"F.I.S. judging is terrible," he says later, dwelling not on his mediocre
placing but on the bigger picture. Although he excels in these
Olympic-style events, where amplitude -- how high a rider can get above the
lip of the halfpipe -- counts for a lot, he seems vaguely offended at
having to ride within a system that stifles his creativity.

"They look for height," he explains. "But it should be based on spinning
and grabs and landings. They'd rather see a guy going 11 feet out and out
of control, waving his arms around, than someone doing a smooth 9-, 10-foot
air. It's holding the sport back." Asked if he choreographs his run to
please the judges, as most other top riders do, Kass just laughs. And then
realizing that he's gone 30 seconds without making a joke, he adds, "The
judges like my bigness."

This is not Kass's lucky day. Not only did he blow a chance to nail down an
Olympic spot (and to collect a $10,000 winner's check), but now the drug
cops from the United States Ski and Snowboard Association approach him.
"Your bib number was randomed," says Melinda Roalstad, the association's
medical director.

"How random was it?" Kass asks snarkily.

Roalstad assigns a volunteer to escort Kass to the drug-testing station.
"If you ski away from him, it'll be considered a positive test," she warns.

"I have passed multiple drug tests," says Kass, his voice dripping with
sarcasm. "I'm high on adrenaline. And blood doping."

But drug tests are no joke, and there's always the chance of being set up
by unscrupulous or vindictive opponents. "We tell them to be suspicious of
open bottles," says Kass's chaperone for the drug test, Chris Orlich. "One
of the other competitors says, 'Here, drink this,' and you end up with a
positive drug test."

When Kass is finally ready, the sport's biggest star takes a few running
steps and slides down the hill to the testing area in just his snowboard
boots, like a kid on a snow day. "Dude," Morgan, who is carrying Kass's
board, calls after him. "Did you know your bindings are broken?"

Kass's dismissiveness toward the Olympics may be genuine, but he can hardly
afford to be any other way. His rebel persona has made him the biggest star
on the circuit, a hero with the "core" (short for hardcore) part of the
snowboard industry, which is skeptical of any rider who even appears to
sell out. Going to the Olympics, or seeming to care too much about going to
the Olympics, could actually hurt Kass with the core fans.

While he'll never be confused with Bill Gates, Kass is also a teenage
entrepreneur and proud of it. In an industry where image is everything, his
glove company, Grenade, is quick to trade on the Kass name. Morgan has been
carrying his Arriflex around all winter, following Kass and the rest of the
Grenade crew, and the resulting film should prove to be a huge seller and a
monster promotional tool.

At the same time, the filming is far from all business. "We've been doing
kid stuff like getting wasted, puking on ourselves, picking up chicks,"
says Kass of the season-long road trip. He delights in telling about
dodging local cops on the way to Mount Bachelor as they tried to film
skateboard-style tricks on the railings at a school building and then left
behind a spray-painted Grenade logo. And of course, the joke is on the rest
of us, too -- the spray paint is tax-deductible.

Indeed, thanks to riders like Kass, brilliant in the halfpipe, party
animals out of it, snowboarding was the fastest-growing sport in America
last year, boasting a 50 percent increase in participants at a time when
most other sports were shrinking. And within the desirable
12-to-22-year-old Gen Y demographic, Kass is a bigger star than, say,
Michelle Kwan. Just ask Kyle Getty, a 15-year-old fan. "If the Olympics and
the X Games were on at the same time, I'd watch the X Games," he says while
watching Kass's run.

To the snowboard industry, the message is clear. "The Olympics need
snowboarding more than snowboarding needs the Olympics," argues Burton's
vice president for marketing, Dave Schriber.

But other riders aren't so certain about that, and they aren't nearly as
casual about the Olympics as Kass is. Sure, they also complain about the
qualifying process and the rules on teams and dress. But they've also got
sponsorship obligations with mainstream companies, which crave the
prime-time television exposure that will come only with a medal in Salt
Lake City.

The 1998 Olympic bronze medalist Ross Powers, who has clinched a spot on
the Olympic team, is paid to wear Polo Ralph Lauren's sleek, chic RLX
clothing line, while Rob Kingwell, who just missed out on an Olympic berth,
has been seen on a billboard over Niketown in San Francisco. Tricia Byrnes,
a savvy veteran, is featured in a series of United Airlines ads.

Outside the ski patrol building, Kass's place in the sport's pecking order
is obvious. Andrew Burton, 15, a local snowboarder, who waits an hour and a
half for Kass to emerge from his drug test, scores a carefully inscribed
autograph, a Grenade hat and a handful of stickers.

"That's tight, dude," Andrew says with thinly disguised awe.

Kass is Andrew's favorite rider, but not because he might win an Olympic
medal. "Snowboarding has always been a rebel sport, a sport for outsiders,"
Andrew explains. "I don't think it should be in the Olympics. A lot of
great riders aren't going to be there."

Going to the Olympics isn't the only way to get rich in snowboarding. There
is a whole generation of riders who take Kass's indifference to another
level and won't compete in contests at all. Magazines like Transworld
Snowboarding and Snowboarder, as well as dozens of low-budget snowboard
videos, allow riders to build a following with 15-second clips of wild
stunts, like riding on the roof of a house or jumping giant cliffs in the
back country. "Kids pass the magazines around, watch the videos over and
over," says Bill Carter, president of Fuse, a Burlington, Vt., marketing
firm. "It was virus marketing before there was such a thing."

Indeed, Terje Haakonsen of Norway, the man generally considered the world's
best halfpipe rider, boycotted Nagano and plans to do the same this year.
While he's openly critical of the greed and nationalism of the Olympic
process -- he compares the former I.O.C. president, Juan Antonio Samaranch,
to Al Capone and calls F.I.S. officials "ski Nazis" -- Haakonsen is careful
not to put down the riders who are going to Salt Lake. His prime sponsor,
Burton, also sponsors many top Olympic hopefuls, including Shannon Dunn and
Ross Powers. "Snowboarders feel that we've never been waving any flags;
we've been waving our boards," he says in broken English.

The wary courtship between snowboarding and the Olympics manifests itself
in the season's most delicious, and fanciful, rumor. The buzz on the hill
is that Haakonsen is planning to sneak into Salt Lake City anonymously,
borrow a bib from a friend, poach the pipe, launch the biggest air of the
day and then ride off into the back country.

Kass has passed his drug test ("I think it'd be cooler to get busted at the
Olympics than before"), and he retreats to the ski lodge cafeteria. Over
lunch, Kass and his Grenade posse sound as if they're auditioning for a
Farrelly brothers movie. An NC-17-rated rant about the drug cops morphs
into a discussion of the effects of large quantities of the energy drink
Red Bull on the digestive tract.

As Kass takes a breath from free-associating to wolf down some chicken
strips and a Dr Pepper, his cell phone rings. Kass, who is notorious for
ignoring phone calls, checks his caller ID.

"It's my dad," he says casually. "I woonnn," he shouts into the phone.

"Really?" Dad says.

"Noooooo." Kass delivers the punch line and proceeds to give his father the
abridged version of the morning's events.

"My parents want me to go to the Olympics," he says. "They weren't too
psyched when I told them I wasn't going to go to high school anymore. They
think I probably wasn't going to make anything of myself."

Kass isn't quite as excited as Mom and Dad, but now, even he is beginning
to warm to the idea. "I think the Olympics are pretty crazy. I'd be stoked
to go, but I'm not really setting my whole life on it, because I've only
been trying to go for a few months now," he says. "I'm looking forward to
the Swedish cross-country-skier girls."

Snowboarding's pre-Olympic circus rolls on to Breckenridge, Colo., where
Kass eventually clinches his spot on the Olympic team, though just barely.
And with that, he and his entourage begin to set their sights on the coming
games.

"I can see it now," says Morgan, half-seriously. "Danny'll put on some
Fifteen and drop in. The crop dusters will be flying over spraying anthrax,
the bombs are dropping, and in the midst of it all, he'll be doing a cab 1080."

Kass laughs so hard he almost spits Dr Pepper up his nose. What would he do
if he won a gold medal? "I'd probably celebrate by running down to my
family, who's all going to be there," he deadpans. "Or maybe a two-year
drug binge."

"The Olympics stink," Morgan smirks, "for people who can't get to the
Olympics."