VII: In Which I Suffer the Consequences of Not Acting My Age

About a month ago some friends asked me to join their softball team. My immediate inclination was to say no. I am 47 years old, I have a surgically repaired knee, and I hadn't swung a baseball bat in probably five years. Worst of all, the shoulder of my throwing arm pops and crackles whenever I make an overhand motion. I need to soft toss for ten or 15 minutes before I can throw a ball with any force at all; any effort to shorten this warm-up period triggers a most effective rebuke in the form of very sharp pain. 15 minutes is a lot longer than I spend warming up to play golf, a sport I'm actually serious about. So there were many compelling arguments against softball.

My friends were insistent, though, and I was reluctant to use my age and decrepitude as excuses to avoid activity. Here in the early stages of Reluctant Bachelorhood I am particularly susceptible to the feeling that I am old, stultifyingly old, unlovably old, olde with an 'e,' that's how old I feel sometimes when I'm in the mood to, and it's an inclination I am determined to fight. A husband who spends a lot of time feeling sorry for himself is a nuisance; a single man who spends a lot of time feeling sorry for himself is a lonely nuisance, and deservedly so. So I said yes, dug out my cleats and glove, and began projecting a mental highlights reel of my future softball accomplishments. In most my play was uncannily like Brooks Robinson's.

Our first game was three weeks ago. I was assigned the un-Brooks Robinson-esque position of pitcher and did fairly well at it too, at least until the sixth inning when I suddenly lost track of home plate and started walking everyone. My exploits at the plate were less satisfying. I quickly discovered that after a five-year layoff I was completely incapable of resisting any pitch. I swung at a pitch that hit me. I swung at another so far outside that I was called out for stepping out of the batter's box to take a swing. I managed a solid single my first time up, but by the second time around the hole in my game was apparent and the pitcher wisely threw everything very, very far from the plate. I tapped out weakly once and struck out in my final plate appearance.

The next morning I awoke to a feeling I have not had in a long, long time. I felt as though someone had sneaked into my bedroom overnight and had somehow managed to beat me all about the body with a large sack of oranges without, miraculously, awakening me. There was no spot on my body that wasn't sore. The bottoms of my feet were sore, for God's sake. How the hell does that happen? Oh yeah. I'm 47 and should not be playing softball. That's how.

Even so, I showed up for our next game, which was this past Sunday. Once again I took my spot on the mound, and this time I pitched even better. I actually felt comfortable pitching, a distinct difference from my first effort. As comfortable as I could, that is, given the injury I sustained in the second inning, when I jammed my heel badly trying to beat out an infield grounder. I knew something had gone horribly wrong the minute I reached first base because I was unable to put any weight on the back half of my right foot without immediately regretting having done so. I was able to finish the game on one and a half feet, but by game's end I could tell I was in for an uncomfortable week ahead.

Because I had spent the previous week away on business and because, as previously noted, I am fanatical about golf, I had scheduled tee times for Monday and Tuesday. Both were completely out of the question; the idea of placing the better part of my body weight on my right foot, as I would have to every time I took a backswing, was quite simply ridiculous. I couldn't even walk my dogs more than 50 yards from my front door for fear that I wouldn't be able to make it back home. I was suffering the consequences of not conceding my age, and I was in a lot of pain.

And it wasn't over yet. Today I learned that I have the opportunity to play a much celebrated, very exclusive golf course in two days. Thanks to circumstances that include my injury, I haven't been able to pick up a golf club in several weeks, so my game will certainly be a lot rustier than I'd like. But it gets worse: this course requires all players to walk the course. Normally that'd be my strong preference anyway, but here I am nearly a week out from my injury and walking is still a struggle. Even with a caddie, it'll be a tough go.

So am I going to beg off this golf outing? Hell no! And, as any serious golfer will tell you, this has nothing to do with some foolish delusion of youthfulness. No, this is not the softball paradigm raising its ugly head once again. This is because a true golfer simply never says no when he gets the opportunity to play a great golf course. Gale force winds? Pshaw. Hailstones the size of bowling balls? We'll take umbrellas. A heel that screams bloody murder whenever you put weight on it? A little Alleve, some Dr. Scholls Gel inserts, maybe a hit off the brandy bottle, then point me toward tee box number one. A man's got to have his priorities. There's stupid pain and there's necessary pain. It took a softball misadventure to teach me, but now I know the difference.

So there you go.