Frozen in Time. Nikki Nichols

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      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.