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Big Bill with a sort of poetry, perhaps the same poetry that inspired her at seventeen to leave behind Mary Margaret and the pleated skirts of prep school in Vermont and head west for Big Sur with the wind in her hair.
    I think I was more nervous than Big Bill. I knew the Olympia had become a fi ve hundred–pound gorilla on my father’s back, and I desperately wanted him to win it. Along with Mentzer, he was probably the favorite up until Arnold’s controversial late entry.
    After a fi ve-year absence, with a movie deal pending, Arnold returned to Sydney in search of his seventh Olympia. His appearance made everybody uneasy, and even before the competition began there were whispers of conspiracy, fears that the Olympia might be compromised in the name of boosting the sport’s popularity. But Big Bill kept his eyes on the prize. He didn’t let the Arnold circus distract him.
    In what I can only view as a rite of passage, my father asked me to oil him up before prejudging. I’d oiled up Big Bill before: at Mr. South-west, Mr. Natural California, a couple of promotional appearances at Lee Dobbs Chevrolet. But this was Olympia, and even the ninety-eight-pound weakling in me was wowed by such dizzying heights.
    In my hotel room, hours before weigh-in, I was presented with a blue poly- fi ber sweat suit to match Big Bill’s. I would be lying if I told you I was not proud of that sweat suit. That sweat suit distinguished me.
    Upon our arrival at the Opera House, Big Bill and I left Willow with Lulu and the twins in the lobby, and the two of us alone padded down a long carpeted corridor in our matching sweat suits. And I knew their eyes were on my back—the twins, Willow, and especially Lulu—and I felt uncharacteristically signi fi cant carrying my father’s bag down that corridor.
    The green room smelled strongly of coconut and armpits. Nearly every mirror was occupied. We walked the length of the humid room, and my father nodded at familiar faces. Frank Zane, Casey Viator, Danny Padilla. Kenny Waller patted my head as we passed the pit.
    My father took a place in the corner and solemnly began shedding his poly- fi ber skin. When he was free of it, he stood before the mirror like a golden god, naked to the world but for a shiny blue Speedo full of giblets.
    And it was good. Soon he began to stretch and pump his arms and legs until the blood began to engorge the muscles. I stood close by, watching as though it were my job, ever ready with the gym bag, now and again inspecting its contents, folding my father’s sweat suit, rolling up his towel.
    When he was done stretching, he gravitated toward the pit, exchanging a little friendly banter with Boyer Coe and Tom Platz on his way. I followed him at a short distance and took my post, pur posefully off to the side, and wore my game face as I watched Big Bill do a set of curls, and a set of bent-arm pullovers, and another set of curls. I told him one more rep . I reminded him no pain, no gain .
    At last, he toweled himself off and said: “Let’s do this thing.”
    As I began to oil him up, Big Bill set his attention to sizing up the competition. Mentzer looked impressive in his black banana ham-mock. Waller looked pale, but ripped. Dickerson was a monster. But Arnold cast the longest shadow. It was impossible to ignore Arnold—
    he wouldn’t let you. He made a grand entrance and proceeded like a peacock to strut his plumage all over the green room, trying to throw everybody off of their game. As he made his rounds, mugging while the others prepared, Arnold kept his body covered with a cropped sweatshirt and sweatpants, leaving all but his patented biceps and forearms to the imagination.
    “So, I see Big Bill is Bigger Bill for 1980. Zis is a lot of weight you’re carrying, Bill. I hope you haff de fi nition to match.”
    Big Bill looked straight ahead at the mirror as Arnold circled him, and I was proud of him for that. He acted like Arnold wasn’t even there, like it was