Turning 50
I'm in my last ten days in the decade of the 40's.
It's weird to me.
We watch a lot of the Dateline, 48 Hours types of shows and early this week there was an episode concerning a murder that happened on October 18, 1974.
I remembered the day well.
It was my 10th birthday.
It was the worst birthday of my life.
Up to that time and since.
You see, I was on the Little Loop football team that year. Before the season started, I had visions of being a great running back like Orenthal James Simpson of the Buffalo Bills.
What I turned out being was a guy who rode the bus to sit on a bench outside in the cold, drizzling rain.
The highlights of all the games were the orange slices they served at halftime. I'd eat 20 of those as the coaches talked about what we had to do to make up the 3-touchdowns we were behind.
I recall the morning of my 10th birthday.
Me: I'm not going to our game today. It's my birthday.
Mom: Yes you are. You signed up. You aren't quitting.
I remember begging to stay home.
Mom wasn't raising a quitter. I had joined up. She had paid for it. I was going. We had presents and cake for after the game.
Fair enough, I suppose, but I recall pulling out of the school parking lot after the game had ended. It was dark. It was raining. I was cold. I hadn't played even a minute of the game that we had lost handily. My head was pressed to the glass of that cold bus window.
Life sucked.
"It's my birthday," I kept thinking, "and I missed it."
Of course, we opened presents. The cake was shaped like a football. A brown cake with white icing for the laces.
And I open my eyes.
Nearly 40 years later.
What the hell happened?
Where did all the time go?
Still, I'm not really down about any of it.
I've had a full life.
Every day is a day where I am grateful for something.
There are moments that feel like that long bus ride home, to be sure, but the love is still all around me.
And I haven't quit on anything I set out to do...whether I wanted to do it...or whether it needed to be done.
I often think of my Mom on the day of my birth. I sometimes ask her what she remembers about all of it...and she can recall everything...from the first jabs of labor pain on through to choosing my name:
"I told the doctor we were going to name you Clifford and your father said that it sounded like a name for the dog. Our dog's name at the time was Prince, and Dad said:
"Why don't we name the dog Clifford and the kid Prince."
Can you imagine?
I could've been Prince before that little purple guy from Minnesota.
Ah, the possibilities.
And at nearly 50 that's what I still think about.
The possibilities.
I'm nearly halfway home.
It's weird to me.
We watch a lot of the Dateline, 48 Hours types of shows and early this week there was an episode concerning a murder that happened on October 18, 1974.
I remembered the day well.
It was my 10th birthday.
It was the worst birthday of my life.
Up to that time and since.
You see, I was on the Little Loop football team that year. Before the season started, I had visions of being a great running back like Orenthal James Simpson of the Buffalo Bills.
What I turned out being was a guy who rode the bus to sit on a bench outside in the cold, drizzling rain.
The highlights of all the games were the orange slices they served at halftime. I'd eat 20 of those as the coaches talked about what we had to do to make up the 3-touchdowns we were behind.
I recall the morning of my 10th birthday.
Me: I'm not going to our game today. It's my birthday.
Mom: Yes you are. You signed up. You aren't quitting.
I remember begging to stay home.
Mom wasn't raising a quitter. I had joined up. She had paid for it. I was going. We had presents and cake for after the game.
Fair enough, I suppose, but I recall pulling out of the school parking lot after the game had ended. It was dark. It was raining. I was cold. I hadn't played even a minute of the game that we had lost handily. My head was pressed to the glass of that cold bus window.
Life sucked.
"It's my birthday," I kept thinking, "and I missed it."
Of course, we opened presents. The cake was shaped like a football. A brown cake with white icing for the laces.
And I open my eyes.
Nearly 40 years later.
What the hell happened?
Where did all the time go?
Still, I'm not really down about any of it.
I've had a full life.
Every day is a day where I am grateful for something.
There are moments that feel like that long bus ride home, to be sure, but the love is still all around me.
And I haven't quit on anything I set out to do...whether I wanted to do it...or whether it needed to be done.
I often think of my Mom on the day of my birth. I sometimes ask her what she remembers about all of it...and she can recall everything...from the first jabs of labor pain on through to choosing my name:
"I told the doctor we were going to name you Clifford and your father said that it sounded like a name for the dog. Our dog's name at the time was Prince, and Dad said:
"Why don't we name the dog Clifford and the kid Prince."
Can you imagine?
I could've been Prince before that little purple guy from Minnesota.
Ah, the possibilities.
And at nearly 50 that's what I still think about.
The possibilities.
I'm nearly halfway home.
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