The Last Flight
Any normal person would have been exhausted from the grueling pace that Will set for himself. At fifty-five years of age, his body was beginning to show wear and tear from a stunning series of commitments that he had pursued for almost twenty years.
His eyes weren't as sharp as they used to be, so he wore glasses more often. His legs weren't as sturdy; his fingers on the old portable weren't as supple. He often fell asleep early in the evening, even as he perused his beloved newspapers while sitting up in bed. His columns were now more rambling, fragmentary, and free-form than ever, often expressing nostalgic feelings about "the good old days" and "good old pals." He could get more defensive about criticism, while the crowds of common folks who besieged him for autographs began to represent more of an annoyance than an ego‐ boosting pleasure. He had never sought anonymity, but fame now had its penalties.
He became more philosophical about life: "We're only here for a spell and then pass on, so get a few laughs and do the best you can. Live your life so that whenever you lose, you're ahead." Being true to his own axiom, the way