the hotel and transformed it into the most luxurious resort in the world, complete with a golf course, riding stables, and every other appointment of wealth.
The Broadmoor Hotel opened in 1918. Its pink stucco exterior beckoned guests to enter its luxurious halls. Its most distinctive feature was an opulent tower reaching into the sky. At the Broadmoor, presidents played and Hollywood stars roamed the halls after cotillions and socials. The hotel brought a touch of sophistication to the still untamed spirit of the West. The hotel flourished as the decades clicked by, and the area, in part because of the Broadmoor’s classic European flair, earned the name “Little Switzerland.”
The Broadmoor Ice Palace.
In the late 1930s, one of the latest diversions of society was attending popular ice revues that included headliners like Frick and Frack, and the inimitable Sonja Henie, now at the peak of her brilliant career. Sonja cast a spell on Spencer and Julie Penrose when they saw her perform in 1937. They instantly fell in love with the ice and decided to bring skating to their posh hotel.
The Penroses tore out the Broadmoor’s riding stables to make room for a new ice rink, a move that perplexed some of the guests but quickly drew even more attention to the hotel. With few all-year indoor rinks in the country, the new arena had a real chance to be the most state-of-the-art facility in the nation. With its arched exterior, imposing beams, and Olympic-sized ice surface, the Broadmoor Ice Palace lived up to expectations when it opened its doors to skaters in 1938.
Spencer and Julie Penrose wanted more than just a place for the rich to play. They wanted the arena to serve as a training ground for top competitors throughout the world. They also wanted the arena to play host to some of the biggest ice and hockey competitions. This message was duly conveyed to Broadmoor president Thayer Tutt (whose wife was an American skating champion). He worked as a tireless advocate for the Broadmoor, securing some of the biggest ice tournaments of the day. The World Figure Skating Championships came there in 1957 and 1959. In 1961, the Broadmoor Ice Palace was selected to host the U.S. National Figure Skating Championships.
As the finishing touches were being put on the facility in 1938, an Austrian émigré was working toward what he hoped would be a promising coaching career. Edi Scholdan, a diminutive man barely 5’6”, spoke with a sharp Austrian accent that made him sound cold and austere. But by all accounts he was infinitely kind with comedy running through his veins.
He began skating at age twelve in his native Vienna. He once placed fifth in a world professional competition, but performing, rather than competing, was his real love. Financially hampered by strict amateur rules, the expenses became too much for him to continue his competitive career. He joined a traveling ice show in Europe, and his antics on the ice, from juggling to purposefully tripping over his own feet, brought him huge acclaim. Scholdan fed off of the immense laughter and joy.
He decided to venture to the United States and try his hand at performing and coaching. Along the way, he served in the military police. His friend, Ice Follies performer Howard Deardorff, never could understand why they put such a funny person in the military police. Deardorff described Scholdan as a “helluva sweet guy. A loving bear.”
In 1943 Scholdan and a fellow military officer found themselves in hot pursuit of an AWOL soldier. They were hopping trains, moving from town to town following leads for four months, when they spotted the man on a train. They took care not to let him know he had been discovered. While Scholdan’s partner left the train to call the next town and arrange for a squad car, Scholdan sat down and started a conversation with the man, giving him no indication he was about to be arrested. For thirty minutes, they talked about their families, their hometowns, and their future plans. When they arrived at the next stop, Scholdan just said, “I guess you know that we recognize you.” The AWOL soldier did not seem surprised. In fact, he thanked Scholdan for treating him with so much respect, and eagerly stretched out his hands for the handcuffs. The other officer was dumbfounded that their lengthy pursuit had ended so peacefully, with the help of Scholdan’s charm.
After Scholdan had fulfilled his duty with the military, he found himself in the center of American luxury—the Broadmoor Hotel. He began coaching part time at the Broadmoor Ice Palace, then in 1948 was given a full-time contract. His coaching style was strict, but kind. He would jokingly chase his students around the ice with blade covers, then during lunch breaks would sit with them outside the rink and read the “Dear Abby” column with his own hilarious ad-libs. From these moments, he earned the nickname “the clown prince of Broadmoor.”
He made his students laugh, but when it came to training, everyone knew who was boss. And his methods began to produce stunning results. By 1956, less than a decade after taking a job at the Ice Palace, he had produced his first Olympic gold medalist in Hayes Alan Jenkins. Four years later, Hayes’s little brother, David, won a gold medal, too. Scholdan’s formula for success seemed to be working. Skaters from around the country were eager to study with him and his other talented colleagues. Edi and the beautiful rink where he was head coach made a fateful impression on a well-to-do family from Kansas City.
Edi Scholdan was one of the nation’s best coaches, having molded two Olympic champions. He was Steffi Westerfeld’s coach in 1961.
Lured by the beauty of Colorado Springs, Otto and Myra Westerfeld took their two daughters to the mountain retreat for a summer respite. During the Westerfeld family vacation to the Broadmoor, Steffi’s older sister Sharon, called Sherri, was first exposed to skating, and the love was instant. The family returned to Kansas City, where Sherri was eager to visit a local ice rink, the Pla-Mor.
In the early fifties, the Pla-Mor was one of only a handful of indoor ice rinks in the country. In the winter, it was filled with skaters in the height of their competitive seasons, and in the summer months, it was converted into an indoor swimming pool.
Jane Bucher Jones was one of the competitive skaters in training at the Pla-Mor rink. Bucher Jones practiced her school figures with meticulous attention to detail, working hours on end to perfect the art. One day while practicing, she noticed a little girl copying her moves—with astonishing precision.
“If you’ve ever seen children skate, those who have good ankles are natural, in the sense that they don’t have to overcome the weakness. I don’t know whether she had ‘dance’ or not, but she just had that natural ability.”
That little girl was Sherri Westerfeld. Sherri had the ankles—and the daring—that allowed her to try skating tricks, even though she had never had lessons before in her life.
Bucher Jones recalled, “I would do a spin and Sherri would do a spin, or three turns, and stuff like that.”
Bucher Jones decided in her own mind that Sherri had star quality and something needed to be done about it.
“I approached Sherri’s mother, Myra,” Bucher Jones recalled, “and I told her Sherri had so much natural talent.”
Myra immediately enrolled Sherri in skating lessons, and took an active role in Sherri’s development as a skater, even though she had never been a competitive skater herself. It was simply Myra’s protective nature to stay at her daughters’ sides at all times.
She doted on the girls. She had lost a son in infancy, and gave birth to Sherri at age thirty-one, and Steffi at age thirty-nine.
As Sherri blossomed into a talented world-class competitor, Steffi watched as her big sister would soar through the air, spin, and earn praise and attention. Steffi
