Growing Old
Whoever said that age is just a number is basically an idiot. What galls me about growing old is that it took me so damn long to grow up, and now I'm already losing it.
I'm nearly three weeks into the back and neck pain, and I don't see the end in sight - I'll still beat Renaldo, Chucky and Pops in golf tomorrow though - and golf is the main reason why I bring up this subject.
Tom Watson is leading the British Open at the age of 59. Tiger Woods is already back at his mansion - and Watson continues to hit the ball well, putt like a maniac and carry a whole generation of people rooting for him to the finish line. It's funny, but if age is just a number why does everyone want the old guy to finish it off and win?
Because we know how hard it is, that's why. I used to be able to stay up until four in the morning drinking beer, tossing back shots and laughing. Four hours later I'd be back at work. If I tried that now... My God it would be about three weeks until I was right again.
And the clock is now an enemy. Think of it. When someone rings our home at nine at night, I have a fit. "Who's calling so late?" I'll yell out.
I watched the boys play in their basketball tourney last week. For reason of update, Matt's team won the championship, Matt won a three-on-three trophy, Jake's team finished second, and Sam's team lost all but one game. There's a lot of trash-talking going on.
Anyway, during one of the games a ball came rolling towards me as I sat on the sidelines. The games hadn't started yet so instead of tossing the ball back to one of the kids, I stood up, groaning all the way, loosened up a little, and took aim at the bucket about twenty feet away.
A kid with pimples all over his face moved into my path. "I'll take that, sir," he said.
"I'm going to shoot it," I said.
The little bastard sort of chuckled and ran to a spot near the basket.
"Stand right under the net because that's where it's coming out," I said.
I stretched the ball over my head once more, took a deep breath, and let it fly. I didn't hit the backboard, I didn't hit the rim...all I hit was the inside of the net.
The kid looked back in my direction as though I had performed some sort of magic trick other than simply shooting a shot I practiced a million times before. He grabbed the ball and dribbled away. I felt like calling after him, letting him know that it's polite to give the ball back when the shot is made, but instead, I heard my wife.
"Come on, Sam is playing outside," she said.
I headed through the doors, shivered because its like 52 degrees in the middle of the friggen' summer and looked in on the game just in time to watch Sam dribble one off his foot and out-of-bounds.
It's his time now, but there are still fleeting moments, right?
Go Tom Watson. I'm glad you sent Tiger away, back to his perfect life. Now finish the job before they take the ball away from you.
I'm nearly three weeks into the back and neck pain, and I don't see the end in sight - I'll still beat Renaldo, Chucky and Pops in golf tomorrow though - and golf is the main reason why I bring up this subject.
Tom Watson is leading the British Open at the age of 59. Tiger Woods is already back at his mansion - and Watson continues to hit the ball well, putt like a maniac and carry a whole generation of people rooting for him to the finish line. It's funny, but if age is just a number why does everyone want the old guy to finish it off and win?
Because we know how hard it is, that's why. I used to be able to stay up until four in the morning drinking beer, tossing back shots and laughing. Four hours later I'd be back at work. If I tried that now... My God it would be about three weeks until I was right again.
And the clock is now an enemy. Think of it. When someone rings our home at nine at night, I have a fit. "Who's calling so late?" I'll yell out.
I watched the boys play in their basketball tourney last week. For reason of update, Matt's team won the championship, Matt won a three-on-three trophy, Jake's team finished second, and Sam's team lost all but one game. There's a lot of trash-talking going on.
Anyway, during one of the games a ball came rolling towards me as I sat on the sidelines. The games hadn't started yet so instead of tossing the ball back to one of the kids, I stood up, groaning all the way, loosened up a little, and took aim at the bucket about twenty feet away.
A kid with pimples all over his face moved into my path. "I'll take that, sir," he said.
"I'm going to shoot it," I said.
The little bastard sort of chuckled and ran to a spot near the basket.
"Stand right under the net because that's where it's coming out," I said.
I stretched the ball over my head once more, took a deep breath, and let it fly. I didn't hit the backboard, I didn't hit the rim...all I hit was the inside of the net.
The kid looked back in my direction as though I had performed some sort of magic trick other than simply shooting a shot I practiced a million times before. He grabbed the ball and dribbled away. I felt like calling after him, letting him know that it's polite to give the ball back when the shot is made, but instead, I heard my wife.
"Come on, Sam is playing outside," she said.
I headed through the doors, shivered because its like 52 degrees in the middle of the friggen' summer and looked in on the game just in time to watch Sam dribble one off his foot and out-of-bounds.
It's his time now, but there are still fleeting moments, right?
Go Tom Watson. I'm glad you sent Tiger away, back to his perfect life. Now finish the job before they take the ball away from you.
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