May 2026 Alumni Update

Bison,

A rumor started to swirl around the stadium on the second day of the Bison Outdoor Classic that Evie Bliss '27, our legendary javelin thrower, was going to try for 200 feet in the event today, a distance she'd never before reached in her extraordinary career. She'd thrown 199' 6" last year, setting a school record just short of 200'. She'd thrown superbly at the Colonial Relays the previous week, winning her first competition of the season with a throw of 196' 8", ranking her first in the NCAA at that point. She'd had a strong off-season of training in the fall and winter, including recovery from a knee injury that had challenged her performances late last year. And at the Classic she'd be throwing at home, in Bucknell's premier outdoor meet, with her fans present.

As the alumni made their way from the stadium to West Fields, it was clear the weather would be a challenge. It was chilly, and there was a gusty crosswind. The Bucknell throwers' tent had to be held down by sandbags, and when they failed, by the throwers themselves. As Evie warmed up with teammates Brylee Tereska '26 and Melissa Viellette '26, they and the throwers from other teams were buffeted to one side of the runway by the wind on their approaches. Once airborne, javelins veered to the left in the landing sector, falling short of where they would have landed had they flown dead center in the sector unaffected by wind. It was an unlikely day for a personal record.

As Evie stepped onto the runway for her first throw, a press corps of alumni pulled their cell phones from their denim pockets, video rolling.

Evie is a study in contrast. When she comes down the runway on her approach, she does so with the grace of a ballerina. Unlike her competitors, whose approaches are more labored, her approaches are light, her precise and measured steps seemingly not touching the runway at all. She moves down a runway the way a swan moves across a pond. The steps of her competitors can be heard from a distance. Evie's steps are quiet. It's as if she's trying not to be noticed, trying not to be conspicuous, trying not to bother a soul in this world, too courteous to even imagine doing so. Yet when she releases her javelin at the end of the runway, she does so with the force of a cannon, an explosion of velocity and strength as different from her approach as is imaginable. The contrast is jarring, especially on her longest throws, when she accents her release with an exclamation. It's not a grunt or a shout or a yell, vulgarity unbecoming a thrower as elegant as Evie. Rather, it's the compressed sound of adamance, as if she's telling her javelin, Yes, you will fly far today--very, very far.

Evie's first throw of 171' 10" seemed like a trial run, an attempt to get a sense of what adaptations for the weather she'd have to make, the javelin an event of countless adaptations, of perpetual recalibrations, like all events in track & field. She was silent as she walked toward Ryan Protzman, her coach, looking down as if replaying the throw in her mind, scrutinizing every step, every angle, every motion. Ryan provided his analysis, as he does with all of his throwers after all of their throws, as engaged in the moment as they are. It's as if he's throwing with them--which, of course, he is. The immersion of coach and athlete is complete, a oneness oblivious to all else around them, a portrait of pure and rarefied concentration, nothing else of consequence. They are in their world.

As Evie stood at the start of the runway, the faraway look in her eyes made it clear her second throw would be different from her first, the adaptations made, the recalibrations set. And at 181' 3", it was different from her first, longer and better centered in the sector. Still, it was well short of her best distance and well short of her expectations for the day. There would need to be more adaptations, more recalibrations. Once again she was silent as she walked toward Ryan, looking down and replaying the throw in her mind. Once again Ryan provided his analysis, replicating her motion at the point of release, illuminating where that motion could be better. Evie watched him intently, nodding occasionally, visualizing the improved release, understanding what she needed to do.

There was a whisper of intimation in the air as Evie made her way down the runway for her third throw. It was as if everyone knew this throw would be the one. And it was. As the javelin left her hand, amplified this time by that exclamation, the arc of its ascent was so astonishing it elicited gasps from the crowd. And Evie knew, turning away from the throw even before the javelin started its descent. She knew the instant the javelin left her hand, she would say later in an interview. As she walked back to the start of the runway, celebrating the way champions celebrate, modestly, as if trying to contain her exuberance, the distance of 61.34 meters was announced by an event official, 201' 3", and the crowd roared. Her teammates smiled and applauded. Even her rivals on other teams smiled and applauded. And when she and Ryan hugged in happiness, a tear came to my eye, because I knew this moment, for them, would last forever.

They would remember this moment, I thought, as I watched them from the hillside. It would come back to them, echoing with persistence and with heart, with clarity and with conviction, with warmth and with tenderness, with joy and with affection, finding its way into every corner of their thoughts, eclipsing all else. They couldn't know now of its resonance, a young coach, an even younger athlete; couldn't know now how this moment would arise time and again in their lives in the years to come, in the lifetimes to come, in the stillness of silent hours by the fire on snowy December nights, finding its way like water finds its way, relentlessly yet quietly, with as much poignance then as now, with as much of a sense that yes, in what life is and can only be, this moment mattered, and matters still.

All the adaptations had been made. All the recalibrations had been set.

It would be as if all of life, for that one fleeting yet eternal moment, was perfect.

--Robert Braile '77