He could continue pushing sleds — he’s the best brakeman America has.
Or he could learn to drive and try to make the 2014 Olympics from the front of the sled instead of the back.
“I know what Brett Favre feels like,” he said. “Right now, it’s so much fun it’s hard not to want to do it again. But you’ve got to remind yourself how much work goes into it.”
For now, he’ll hold off on any decisions and let things calm down.
Which way is he leaning? He wants to drive.
SHELBY, Neb. — OK, let's first get the timeline straight.
Ten days ago, Curt Tomasevicz stood atop a medal stand in Vancouver, flashed his new jewelry and celebrated the Americans' first bobsled gold in 62 years.
The next day, Tomasevicz was in the crowd, cheering as the U.S. and Canada dueled for hockey gold.
Three days later, he shot the breeze with Tom Osborne and Bo Pelini in Lincoln before drawing a huge ovation at the NU women's basketball game — he fired T-shirts out the Der Wiener Schlinger.
The next morning, he took his first trip to New York City, where he and his bobsled teammates met David Letterman and presented the “Top 10 things you don't want to hear from a guy in your bobsled.”
No. 6: “I bought us a Toyota bobsled,” Tomasevicz said.
After the show, Letterman's main guest asked the team members to hang around the studio. Tom Hanks told them that his 14-year-old son so enjoyed watching the U.S. bobsled team that he tried to push the couch around the Hanks living room.
The next day, a little Matt Lauer and Al Roker, followed by views from the 70th story of Rockefeller Center, and then back to another airport, where the security scanner always flags the medal in his coat pocket.
“Is this a real one?” asks the guard. “Is it yours?”
The whirlwind continues this week: speaking engagements at Nebraska schools; meetings with potential sponsors; a trip to Colorado, where he recently bought a house; decisions about his future in bobsledding . . .
But Monday, well, Monday was a timeout. Monday was special. Finally Tomasevicz came home, to Shelby High School, where people still call him “Curtis.”
The population sign on the highway says 690 and, with the aid of State Patrol members outside, almost exactly 690 people filed into the gymnasium before 9 a.m.
Inside, they sang the national anthem and watched the replay of the gold-medal-winning run. The Village Board chairman said that he'd gladly give Curtis the key to the city, but the only door it opens is the gate at the sewer lagoon.
Then Curtis grabbed the mike.
Usually, Tomasevicz plans speeches for specific audiences. But this wasn't a fourth-grade classroom or a VFW club. This was Shelby, young and old.
He looked at the audience and saw his coaches, his classmates. He saw his friend's dad — in kindergarten, Curtis spent the night at their house. He saw his sixth-grade teacher — her husband was Curtis' old superintendent, and recently he passed away.
“You guys raised me,” he said.
Before he could tie his shoes, he knew these hallways. Down that one, his mom taught art. In this gym, he practiced for state basketball tournaments, 1998 and 1999. The place has changed, he said.
“The walls used to be more of a urine color.”
He told kids to know who you are and where you're going. Every kid is great at something, he said, and your talent is no better than your classmate's.
He showed off his bobsled shoes, his helmet, his (tight) spandex suit — “It takes a lot of courage to wear that,” he said.
He looked out into the bleachers, where 30 grade-schoolers squeezed onto a single wooden plank, and asked for questions. Skinny arms shot for the ceiling. “You in the blue shirt and glasses,” he said.
A shy voice: “Have you ever fallen out of the sled?”
Actually, Curtis responded, yes.
Another voice: “How many medals have you won?”
“Only one important one,” he said.
Toward the end of the hour, Tomasevicz pulled the important one from his pocket and put it around his neck, prompting a standing ovation.
“Just because you're clapping long doesn't mean you'll be able to stay out of class a little longer,” he said.
But fourth period could wait. The principal herded each grade — about 25 kids apiece — to the risers for class photos with Curtis.
Then individual pictures. A high school student, at the instruction of his mother, cozied up to Curtis. Snap. Flash. “That's a good one,” his mom said.
Then autographs. A freshman pulled two dollar bills from his wallet and asked Curtis to scribble his name. “Tomasevicz gets shorter and shorter every time I sign it,” he said.
Meanwhile, fifth-grader Delaney Belt, wearing a black “Night Train” shirt, waited patiently to touch Tomasevicz's medal.
“I want to see how much it weighs,” she said.
Delaney watched Curtis on television at the Olympics. Last Wednesday, she spent the night at the home of some friends, and they stuck Curtis' photos on poster board. Monday morning, she insisted on carrying that poster into school. Dad had to carry her trumpet.
Delaney waited out the crowd and asked Curtis to sign her poster.
Then they posed for Grandma, the champion bending to Delaney's height. For a moment, the gold was just inches from the girl's face, dangling off Curtis' neck.
But Delaney's bashful. She chickened out. And Curtis moved on, smiling for someone else's camera.
“I didn't want to just grab it,” Delaney said.
No worries. She'll have other chances.
The owner of that gold lives just down the road.
Video from the ceremony Monday in Shelby:
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