I was 12-years-old when my father took me to my first Olympic Games. That was a long time ago, but I remember, even then, he concluded that his only son would not be an athlete.
No man lives forever, though what he leaves behind can endure so other men might benefit from each man's knowledge.
"The sky has turned above me as the gods play among themselves with the other creatures that inhabit the heavens. I rise to my feet and stare into the blackness. I see Herakles. I smile and wave at him, but he does not wave back. Dressed in the skin of the Nemean lion, kneeling, he wields his club and threatens Cerberus, the three-headed dog from Hell; his foot keeps Draco in check. I feel safe. Another day is behind me, and I look forward to this one with much anticipation."
It is the 75th Olympiad, 480 BC. The sacred truce has been declared even as Persian King Xerxes crosses the Hellespont with his million-man army bent on bringing the free state of Greece to heel. Amid the crowds of Olympia and threatened by the clash of armies, two men, one a boxer, the other a poet learn the true value of a human life.
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