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Campaign residen the P -litics - Princeton University

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Perspective<br />

My younger self: Wrestling with <strong>the</strong> passage of time<br />

By Bill Eville ’87<br />

Bill Eville ’87 is <strong>the</strong> arts and features editor of <strong>the</strong> Vineyard<br />

Gazette on Martha’s Vineyard.<br />

Not too long ago, I showed up for wrestling practice at my<br />

old high school. I blame it on my approaching 25th<br />

<strong>Princeton</strong> reunion, this desire to visit <strong>the</strong> glory of my youth.<br />

My wife had insisted I call <strong>the</strong> coach first to see if it was<br />

OK. “There may be laws against this,” she said. Coach<br />

informed me that it was quite common for some of <strong>the</strong> old<br />

guys to drift back.<br />

The practice room had not changed at all. It was still a<br />

small box of a room with wall-to-wall mats and a heavy-duty<br />

heater pumping <strong>the</strong> temperature up to more than 80<br />

degrees. I broke a sweat just standing by <strong>the</strong> door.<br />

For a moment I stared. In front of me a group of young<br />

boys — what else could <strong>the</strong>y be called? — lounged about on<br />

<strong>the</strong> mat. I caught <strong>the</strong>m eyeballing me out of <strong>the</strong> corner of<br />

<strong>the</strong>ir eyes. I was no mere visitor checking out <strong>the</strong> scene. No, I<br />

was dressed for battle, wearing a gray T-shirt, gym shorts, even<br />

tattered headgear and kneepads I had dug out of <strong>the</strong> closet.<br />

Then I saw him: a kid who could be my younger self, only<br />

taller and tougher-looking.<br />

The boy had shoulders wide as a clo<strong>the</strong>sline and arms so<br />

muscular <strong>the</strong>y appeared misshapen. He wore a crew cut and<br />

had a lean, square face. The boy looked hungry, too. He<br />

pumped out push-ups while <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r kids relaxed. There<br />

was a rope hanging from <strong>the</strong> ceiling and he climbed it hand<br />

over hand, not using his legs at all, while <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r kids chatted<br />

mindlessly. He practiced moves in front of a mirror and<br />

<strong>the</strong>n again among more hanging ropes, bobbing and weaving<br />

like some Tarzan among <strong>the</strong> vines.<br />

I thought back to my own time on <strong>the</strong> team. As a young<br />

wrestler I had run several miles each evening while carrying<br />

a brick in each hand. By <strong>the</strong> end of each run my biceps<br />

bulged large as summer squash. Once, a cop cruising by had<br />

stopped to investigate. When I told him why I was carrying<br />

two bricks while running late at night he nodded, <strong>the</strong>n told<br />

me how when he was in high school he played football.<br />

Every morning he woke before dawn, went out to <strong>the</strong><br />

garage, and for an hour pounded a spare tire with a sledgehammer.<br />

The cop shook my hand and sent me on my way.<br />

“Bill,” <strong>the</strong> coach said, waking me out of my daydream.<br />

“Glad you could make it.” He shook my hand so vigorously I<br />

felt something give way in my shoulder. I smiled extra wide<br />

to hide my grimace.<br />

“Wouldn’t have missed it for <strong>the</strong> world,” I said, looking<br />

past <strong>the</strong> coach toward my younger self — surely, my partner<br />

continues on page 70<br />

paw.princeton.edu • May 16, 2012 <strong>Princeton</strong> Alumni Weekly<br />

FRÉDÉRIC BENAGLIA<br />

P<br />

49

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