Mission Impossible

Glory days. Everyone had them, Bruce Springsteen sang about them, and, most importantly, everyone wants them back.

Nearly everyone at this fine institution had their glory days back in high school. Some excelled in math league, others in jazz ensemble, or (in my case) high school lacrosse.

I was one of the better players on an above-average high school team in Northern California. I was the token undersized kid who was athletic — but not an athlete — getting by on effort and exploiting what athleticism I did have.

Though my high school glory days have faded behind me, Princeton senior defenseman Oliver Barry is still living out his own. Barry is a true athlete who has exploited every ounce of his talent to become one of the premier defensemen in the country. He, too, gets by on effort, as any player not giving his all could never achieve the level of success he has in his sport.

In high school, he was the captain of a team ranked No. 23 in the country and was named first-team All-New England. At Princeton, Barry only improved. He was an honorable mention All-American as a junior and a preseason second team All-American this year.

My day of reckoning

I decided to put all those credentials to the test to see just how good those guys out there on Saturday afternoons really are. I had a chance to go heads up, one-on-one, mano a mano with the Tigers' top defenseman.

I met up with Barry after his practice and a team photo on Wednesday. After a few warm-up tosses with my competitor, I declared myself ready and planned my attack. I knew no amount of warming up or strategizing could fully prepare me, but face-to-face with Barry, I deluded myself into thinking I had a chance.

Actually, things didn't start off that badly. I was able to move against him without losing the ball and to get into position to try to beat him on a roll dodge behind the cage. I rolled, though not well, and tried to make it around the goal, but as soon as I got to the goal line Barry buckled down and made sure the only place I would be going was backward.

My next few attempts went pretty much the same way. I tried to make a dodge, and Barry pushed me back, keeping himself squarely between me and the goal. One time, I thought I had a step on Barry after a semi-effective dodge, but as soon as that thought flashed in my head, he was back in position, shoving me away from the goal.

On another attempt, I made it about two yards above the cage on the right side. I turned 180 degrees to take a lefty jump shot, but held back when I realized that my angle was about as wide as one of the Olsen twins. Yells went up from observers on the side, "Pull the trigger! Take the shot!" But no, I was too picky. Little did I know that that sliver of net was the best shot I would get at a good story.

Soon afterwards, as both Barry and I paused to catch our breath, I said to Barry, "At least I haven't dropped the ball yet."

Everyone has a competitive fuse, and I had just lit Barry's. He was about to teach me two things. One, he hadn't been trying at all, and two, he could do whatever he wanted against me.

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For the remainder of the exercise, each of my attempts ended with the ball on the ground. He wasn't checking me like a hack JV player trying to break my arm; each check was planned and precise. I don't even remember his stick touching my body. I would be in the middle of a cradle, and Barry's stick would flash in front of me just as the arc of my cradle neared completion. The next thing I knew, he had popped the ball out of my stick.

Coaches always tell defensemen to play their opponent's body and not their stick. Barry could have played me however he wanted, and I would have had a worse chance to score than a seventh grader at Cotillion.

With my last attempt of the day, I decided to go with the play made famous by former Syracuse attackman Ryan Powell: the finalizer. Done properly, it looks as amazing as it sounds. I began by running left to right behind the cage, but about two steps before I was going to "finalize" Barry, he decided to exert his will over me. One swift check later, not only was the ball on the ground, but my stick was lying there as well, knocked out of my poor, pathetic hands.

Though the day ended fittingly with my stick on the ground, I can't complain. Remember what they say about glory days? Everyone wants them back. Well, for about 10 minutes, as I faced off against All-American Oliver Barry on the turf of Class of 1952 Stadium, they were back.