Jock

The other day, as I was returning home from my morning walk in Prospect Park, I stopped at a corner to wait for a traffic light. Next to me stood a man about my age. He wore no hat over his shock of white hair. Instead he sported a wide black sweatband around his forehead. Completing his outfit were a dark red sweatshirt, shorts in a shade of lighter red, black tights, white crew socks, and the kind of sport shoes manufactured by Nike. He wore glasses, secured by a cord around his neck. His chin muscles had collapsed, forming a great wobbling wattle.

His back curved by osteoporosis, he had planted his feet firmly apart. Seeing that there was no oncoming traffic at the moment and not waiting for the light to change, he marched across the wide expanse of Eastern Parkway. He held his arms slightly away from his trunk, as if they were too muscular to be brought any closer to it, and he moved with a kind rolling, tough guy, don't mess with me gait. Perhaps he had once been an athlete, a linebacker maybe, but he now walked stiffly, with effort, and although he appeared to be trying to walk quickly - cars could materialize at any moment - he was even slower than I am.

Good for him, I thought, as I watched him make his laborious way across the street. He's not giving up but doing his best to retard his physical deterioration. Yet at the same time, I thought him slightly ridiculous. Here was a bent old man who dressed and carried himself like a 25-year-old athlete out for a run.

The incongruity between his physical appearance and his presentation of self struck me as both comical and poignant - funny because his manner and dress were at such variance with his physical condition and sad because they only emphasized his decay. Yet he wasn't giving up, but struggling against the erosion of age. If his appearance is any indication, he will rage against the dying of the light, if he's not doing so already.

The old man looked as if he wouldn't give a damn if he learned of the discrepancy between his vision of himself and the impression he makes on others. If I were in his Nikes, though, I'd be mortified. Still, who am I to criticize him? I probably have comforting illusions about myself too. So if you know what they are, keep them to yourself.