How Big?

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There was a profoundly poignant moment during the softball game when my entire life flashed before my eyes.

A can or corn was hit into short center field. My cousin Tony was playing deep in center and since I was at 2nd and the shortstop was way in the hole, I knew it was my ball, or it was a hit.

"Go, go, go," I told my legs.

Two seconds later:

"Go, go, go," I told my legs.

It wasn't that far away. In the recent past I might have caught it. 10 years ago, I most likely would have grabbed it. 20 years ago, I would have been there waiting for it to come down.

On Sunday I didn't get within ten yards of it. My cousin actually ended up closer to making the catch than I did.

Last night I asked Sam to grab me a bottle of water.

"I ran for every game," he said. "I ran for you, Uncle Jim, Uncle John, Mr. Renaldo, Uncle Chuck, Mr. Popple...how come I'm getting you a water?"

"Because you have ten year old legs," I said.

"But you only ran about three times," he answered.

"JUST GET ME A FREAKING WATER, PLEASE!"

I didn't really scream, but I wanted to. It's really, really, really over.

Sometimes you read about an athlete that re-establishes the boundary between young and old. Through hard work and determination the athlete defies father time and does something heroic on the ball field. Think Nickalus at the Master's. Think Jamie Moyer pitching at 47 years old.

Just don't think of me.

As the clock struck 12 on New Year's Eve this past year, I made a simple promise...get in shape.

It didn't work out.

The ball landed out in center on Sunday.

"I could have got there," my cousin said, "but I sure as shit didn't want to collide with you."

I'll be 47 when the clock strikes midnight this year...I am changing my goals.

As Norm on Cheers once said:

"My goal is to see how big I can get."

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