Remember when we could soar?
Oh, perhaps not like an Olympic athlete or a falcon above the Blue Ridge.
But in our minds and ambitions. In our hobbies and our past-times. We were young lions. Climbing, running, jumping. Doing whatever was required on the playground or the office.
After a mere two decades away from playing any sort of competitive sport that didn't require a golf cart, I recently joined my company's softball team. Despite a chronically ailing shoulder and 20 pounds of extra weight, somehow I thought I could walk out onto the diamond and perform at a reasonable level at age 54.
Yes, 54. Isn't that the new 44? That's what I keep hearing.
The mind does play cruel tricks on our bodies at times. It markets things that we know in our hearts aren't true.
First the good news. I went 2-for-3 with the bat. Both hits were lined sharply. I scored two runs and had two assists and one put-out playing second base and shortstop in my first game out of softball/baseball retirement.
Now the bad news.
I was standing on first base. The next hitter came to the plate and blasted the ball into the gap in left center. There was no way I could legitimately stop at second without looking like a lazy, lame ass. I had to take third base. However, third base looked as far away as the moon to me as I made the turn. I had already slightly pulled a hamstring running out my hit to first base.
I made it to third. There was no throw to challenge me.
When he next hitter came up, he popped out to deep center on the first pitch. "First pitch" being the key phrase.
Tag up you say?
No way. I was still gasping for air from the run from first to third, and their was no way my hamstring was going to cooperate with another burst. OK, maybe not a burst. More like a pathetic meandering down the line. But you get my drift. I needed more recovery time.
I waited for the next batter to get a convincing hit that would allow a more leisurely stroll to home plate. Thankfully, that hit came and we didn't leave a potential run on third base.
After the game, the pain in my already-injured left shoulder was tear-jerkingly awful. But the worse was yet to come.
The next morning, a new injury appeared. A left knee swelled up. Can't recall what I did to cause the swelling other than to think that I could just go running around the baseball field like Father Time had stopped in the mid 1980s. Heck, I don't even think I stretched.
My arms were sore -- forearms, wrist, hands, fingernails. You name it.
My hamstring tightened.
My eyelids and hair hurt.
It took a week to feel better.
My comeback lasted one game. I hung up my No. 2 jersey and if I join any softball teams in the future, it will be in the 50-and-over league where you don't feel compelled to take the extra base or turn two in the field as a gorilla is steamrolling his way into you.
Playing with folks 20-30 years younger than myself, even though I held my own, is a prescription for aches, pains and humiliation that I no longer can get rid of with just a Tylenol or two.
Playing sports that require sprinting, diving, running into base runners trying to jar the ball loose from my glove is not a good way to spend a Wednesday evening when the pain for the next week makes putting on my socks a major challenge.
However, I am glad I tried it and didn't totally embarrass myself. But a man must know his limitations. And all the muscle memory in the world isn't going to make that run from first to third feel any shorter.
I feel lucky I did no long-term damage in my brief comeback.
Playing guitar, taking long hikes, learning new tricks related to work and career -- those are all still viable endeavors that old dogs can do fairly well. I am grateful for still being able to do those things.
Having a grapefruit-size sphere whizzing towards my head as my glove-hand reflexes can't match my enthusiasm may sound like a blast, but I think I will leave that sort of fun for folks with muscles that don't object so loudly.
I no longer want to soar.
I want to glide.
There is a subtle but noble difference.
