OUT OF THE FOOTBALL STATE OF MIND

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You know, for years now I have been telling you that I am getting way too old to play any sport more physical than chess.

But, year after year, I continue to go out there and punish my body, playing softball, football, basketball, and the like.

So today I do not come to you seeking sympathy. Because, if there is one thing I have learned over the last few years, it is that most of you (and by “you” I mean “my wife”) have very little sympathy for me when I get wounded on the intramural battlefield.

But what I will share with you is the sad realization that I am getting old, although it is not manifesting itself in its usual manner, which is the inability to get out of bed the next morning.

No, this realization came the other night during a flag football game, as I watched a play unfold, and saw something that struck me, as well, a little much. There was a pass play across the middle and a defender on the other team dove and knocked the ball out of the air. A nice play, indeed. At that point, another player came over and began shaking his hand wildly and pointing in his teammate’s face, screaming at a level just under that of a volcanic eruption, “YEAH, BABY!!! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!! THEY CAN’T COME HERE ON YOU!!! THIS IS YOUR HOUSE, BABY!!! YEAH!!!”

And then they proceeded to hit each other several times across the chest. I kinda felt like Jane Goodall for a minute. I was waiting for one of them to start picking nits out of the other’s back hair.

As I sat there and watched my own little sociological experiment unfold, I realized that, at one point in my life, I, too, may have had a similar reaction, although I have always drawn the line at calling another man “Baby.” The name “Baby” is reserved for actual babies and actual strippers, not men. Oh, and the butt pat was always off-limits for me. A stinging high-five sends the same congratulatory message without the uncomfortable venturing towards a come-on.

But I digress. I sat and watched these guys throwing their absolute all into this game. That game – that meaningless 40 minutes of touch-football – was the center of their emotional universe. And, about the same time, you know what I was thinking? I was thinking, “Man, I forgot to get milk at the grocery store.” (I was also thinking, “Did he just call that other guy, ‘Baby’?”)

I just can no longer summon all of my energies into caring whether or not we convert a 3^rd and long in a game that has roughly the same importance as preseason curling. (Note to all you curling fans out there: I have no idea if there is curling season, much less a preseason, but you get my point.)

I guess my priorities have changed. I no longer can devote the kind of emotional intensity into a flag football game. Sure, I’ll give it my all when I’m out there. My grotesquely swollen knees are a testament to that. And I will be the first to enjoy mocking and ridiculing at other’s expenses, especially my own teammates, but I just can’t…well…care about it any more. I play intramural sports so that I can get a little exercise and have a little fun, not so I can define my entire world.

It’s just that hitting the playing field is nothing more than recreation for me. Sure, you see guys win the Super Bowl or the World Series and they go nuts. But do you know why they go nuts? Because they just got a bonus that is about four times your annual salary, that’s why. They’re running around thinking, “We did it! We did it! I can finally purchase Wolfgang Puck and make him serve me omelets in bed each morning!!!” Having the same kind of celebration because you stopped a group of 20-something professionals from getting a first down just doesn’t quite hold the same impact. Sure, you can say that those guys have a love for the game. Maybe so. I have a love for a good steak, but you don’t see me dancing a jig when I grill it just right.

Oh, and one quick point: I still have long, drawn out shouting matches with the television during sporting events. But I only do that because, if I yell loud enough, I can actually affect the outcome of the game. And maybe, just maybe, one of the players will send Wolfgang over here one morning to say thanks.