I’m supposed to play pickup football at 8 AM on Father’s Day. Already my heart is telling me not to do it.
Don’t get me wrong, I love football with a sick passion. I love the watching and the playing and the coaching–being involved at every possible level. In truth, a large part of why I want an xbox one all of a sudden is the realization that the new madden will be awe-some. Still, after the tragedy of last week’s basketball game, I’m not sure I’m ready to be dismantled in yet another sport. I’m a person whose entire identity has been predicated on speed. I am a person who is no longer fast enough to hide the glaring defects in technique and, as a result, is just bad at all that physical stuff now.
We can rebuild me. We can make me better.
But when will that start? At what point do I crawl off my butt and decide to be again. At what point is it too late? I watched Jerry Rice crumble 20 years into an NFL career, and I’m no Jerry Rice. I have not the level of skill or physical determination to share a paragraph with the dude, but I can say that even he fell off. I’ve fallen completely off and man, it is a long way down to bottom. So, what do I do?
Tomorrow is nothing. Tomorrow is everything. It represents a choice. Either I will be the guy who sits on the couch and talks about getting right as his belly swells, or I’m going to be the guy who humbly steps out unto a hot football field and says, ‘age is not going to beat me.’
Stay tuned for results.