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<\/p>\nMy body, dormant for decades but never forgotten, woke up.<\/p>\n
Fifty years ago, I wasn\u2019t a billionaire. I was \u201cThe Torpedo,\u201d a freestyle swimmer who took silver in Munich. I had spent half my life in the water, learning how to move, how to turn, how to explode with sudden, violent power. Muscle memory is a strange thing; it doesn\u2019t care about wrinkles or gray hair. It waits.<\/p>\n
I heard his sharp intake of breath. The signal.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Dad,\u201d Greg hissed, the pretense of love vanishing.<\/p>\n
He lunged.<\/p>\n
It was a clumsy, brute-force attack. He threw his entire body weight forward, arms extended, intending to shove me violently over the low rail and into the churning wake.<\/p>\n
In the fraction of a second before his hands made contact, I moved.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t stumble. I didn\u2019t shuffle. I pivoted. My left foot planted firmly, and I swung my body to the side with a fluidity that belonged to a man half my age. It was the same motion I used to use for a flip turn at the wall\u2014compact, precise, explosive.<\/p>\n
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