Growing Older

We are all growing older. We do it year in and year out. So far, I've managed to convince myself that despite the apparent trend that I was still not old. That fantasy ended this month. Mark the date. In March of 2010, at the age of 47 and some change, I've turned the corner. And I can already tell that I'm going to be just as all annoying old people I've ever known.

It started on a warm winter morning in an abandon park. I was pitching my best 40 mile an hour heater down the middle of the plate to my 14 year old who was trying to get ready for the approaching baseball season. It was a good pitch and apparently the batter thought so as well. He got every bit of the ball and drove back into the box with laser precision directly into my left big toe. The ball carried on into an unmanned center field and foul words carried well beyond that.

I did what I would have told my 14 year old. Walk it off. Shake it off. But whatever you do, just don't rub it.

Once back home and in the privacy of my bathroom, I inspected the damage. My untrained eye saw a toe that was experiencing serious pain. No problem. Just a mild injury. That was February 13th. It's been more than a month later and the toe is only marginally better.

A few days after the toe incident, we went skiing. I'm always eager to participate in this young person's activity. We had the added pleasure of skiing during the day and watching the Winter Olympics at night. After an impressive performance by Shaun White where he must have climbed 15 feet above the rim of the half pipe, I figured I would give the Northstar half pipe a go the very next day. Ok, I'm not an idiot. I took the wimpiest of lines through the half pipe never getting too close to the top, and still managed to get more than a little nervous and how high I was on those vertical walls. I had almost navigated the entire half pipe when I bit it. And I bit it big. I dragged my face along the snow, rid myself of those pesky skis and shaved a few unwanted millimeters off of my nose for good measure. A worried son skied up to assist me, but I waved him off. It's not like I'm old. But I had done something to my left arm. I couldn't lift it more than a few inches without experiencing pain. No problem. I would recover. That was February 18th. Yes. While it is marginally better, it still hurts.

I was feeling sorry for myself this past weekend nursing my aches, when my son challenged me to a tennis match. Tennis? I gave that up long ago. That sport killed my body 10 years ago. "Come on old man," he chided. It was as if he had uttered a magical word. The phrase "old man" put me face to face with the fact that my body is in transition. Stubborn to the end, I accepted his challenge. He began his trash talking (I taught him well) and I insisted on a bet. One set, I declared, and if I won I would nurse my increasingly sore body while he did my chores. He thought about it for a moment and then declared what would happen if he won--a second set of tennis. Oooh, that hurt, but I accepted the challenge.

Unfortunately there was an empty court ready for us, allowing me no wiggle room to back out. Nothing felt right. I declared no practice (fearing it might wear me out) and that I would get first serve. He agreed half laughing at the fact that I had even stepped foot on the court. As I willed my body to play a sport I had almost forgotten, I knew that I needed to jump out to a quick lead thinking he would mentally cave like a house of cards.

The last time I played tennis it was as this son's partner. I remember him more as a liability. No longer. He had pretty ground strokes, a decent first serve, but none of that was as big of a problem for me as the fact that he had a strategy. His game plan was to move me back and forth and he patiently executed this strategy while I fantasized about handfuls of Advils and wrestled for oxygen.

He won the first game. I was pissed. I won the second game and told myself that I was now warm and thus predicted a trend. He won the third game clearly with a different trend in mind. We continued on this perfect "off serve" match. His trash talking never stopped. I barely uttered two words. I figured that breathing was a higher priority than psychological warfare.

Midway through the set the park maintenance guy arrived to empty the trash cans. He took one look at us and asked if I had a cell phone in case I needed to call 911. Very funny! Moments later, two young tennis studs arrived to "rally" and effectively served as stark contrast to show my son just how far I was from my physical peak. The game wore on.

At 5 to 5 we argued about the game score. Ultimately we agreed that I was down 15 to 40 on my serve. The realization that I was on the brink of defeat must have had an impact, because something snapped. No, not a bone. Mentally I snapped. I was able to find a small bit of my old game. Enough of playing like an old man! I was going to make one final attempt to recapture my youth. I would play through the pain. I could last a few more games with Advils as my reward.

I came back to win the game. And then I won the set.

I beat my young son on this glorious day. He would tell the story about how close it was. I was not as happy as I should have been realizing that I left my youth on the court that day. While I'm still the reigning champion of the house, it's not clear if the title will be defended. Eager to collect my prize (and happy about not being forced to play a second set) we went home only to learn that he had a mountain of homework and couldn't possibly help with my chores. I was left to wallow in my Advil and my chores.

Growing old is easy. Staying young is hard. Resisting the aging process is harder still. But over the past month I've stopped all resistance and am comfortable with my new senior status. I'm ok with aches and pains that take months to heal. I'm happy to watch younger people demonstrate their athletic prowess.

I, on the other hand, am off to the store. I want to buy a new hose and nozzle. I always thought that when I got old that it would be fun to sit on my front porch in the shadows stealthily waiting for young kids to walk across my grass at which point I would spray them. Being old aint so bad!

March 17, 2010