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SHADOWS OF OUR
FORMER SELVES |
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Whether you're a sports fan or not, you're most likely
familiar with Stephen Curry, the Golden State Warriors baby-faced
superstar. He's almost 36 years old now, and everyone likes to talk about
how he hasn't lost a step and is as good, or better, than ever.
Just wait, Steph. Your time will come. It always does.
I was thinking about this as I gathered seven good friends
last week for our annual athletic competition in the desert, where we play
tennis, pickleball, golf and bocce. I have recently renamed it the Old
Farts Quadfecta.
It's kind of sad. The competition used to be fierce, with
sweat and arguments and tired and battered bodies at the end of each day.
Now we can't move fast enough to break a sweat. That is, assuming we play
at all.
A typical conversation goes something like this (names
changed to protect the decrepit):
Me: Okay, Fred, you and Sam are going to take on Steve and Chuck in
the first round of tennis.
Fred: I'm out. I've got a shoulder problem. Count me in for bocce,
though.
Steve: Are you kidding? I can barely walk, let alone play tennis. I
think it's a hip flexor, but it could be paralysis.
Sam: I can play, but it won't be pretty. My right knee is a mess.
I'll need someone to cover 80% of the court for me.
Chuck: Let's bag it and have a beer.
Me: You guys are pathetic.
Of course, I'm not any better. We were all pretty good
athletes in our prime, and now we're generally decrepit old men, ranging
in age from 67 to 81. The good news is it happens to everyone, sooner or
later. Even Stephen Curry.
Some just take longer to get there. For an inexplicable and
highly irritating reason, some men age a little slower than others. They
defy the process, and it's not fair.
Consider Dino. That's not his real name, but it should be.
He's one of our eight competitors, and he's in his early 70's. He runs
like a deer, moves like a gazelle, and can play anything and everything
all day long. We hate him.
He is a freak of nature. All we can do is saddle him with the
most decrepit partner (lots of choices), and hit all balls to the weak
link. It's our only chance.
Dino takes good care of himself, but so do the rest of us. He
doesn't eat THAT much better, or drink THAT much less, or exercise THAT
much more. So why does he run rings around the rest of us?
It's all in the genes, I guess. Dino was blessed with
abundant cartilage and a thin frame. Meanwhile, the rest of us are
slightly overweight wrecks, shadows of our former selves, and can only
look on in a jealous rage.
At least we're still out there trying, for the most part.
It's easy for Dino, a little harder for the rest of us. But even Dino will
slow down one of these years. Just ask our two 81 year old competitors.
Incredibly, they're still out there. While their tennis
participation might be slowing down a bit, other sports are going strong.
Pickleball is popular among the older crowd because the smaller court
requires less movement, and bocce ball happens to be my particular sport
of the future. If I have to, I can play bocce sitting down with a glass of
wine in my hand.
And, of course, there's golf. You gotta love a sport that
requires just slightly more exertion than bocce ball.
So while Dino is as eager as a puppy dog to play anything and
everything, the rest of us are not quite as game. We're either older than
him (just wait, Dino) or have the genetic traits of a steamship.
The competition ended last Sunday. Participation was a little
sketchy, but we got it done. Everyone survived and Dino did not win. It's
all about picking your partner.
I'm already planning for next year's competition. It's
expanding to become the Old Farts Pentathlon. We'll still have golf,
pickleball and bocce, but tennis is out. And we're adding napping during
the day and bathroom trips during the night.
You just have to adjust. Dino and Steph will understand
someday.
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