all kinds of time
Nov. 2nd, 2008 05:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"I always turn to the sports section first. The sports page records people's accomplishments; the front page has nothing but man's failures."
- Fmr. Supreme Court Justice Earl Warren
My father, in his high school days, was a gifted three-sport athlete, excelling at baseball, basketball and football. His football career was particularly distinguished, earning him high school All-American status as a halfback before a zealous linebacker nearly split him in two.
So it makes sense that, when I was born, he put a miniature football in my crib and started notifying recruiters for Notre Dame.
He probably started panicking when I took up soccer -- which is what all young kids in Rochester do, and which my dad considers only slightly more sporting than apple-picking.
Once I warmed up to the more traditional sports -- baseball, basketball and football -- my dad had another problem: I was not at all good at them. As a lumpy, cerebral, uncoordinated child, these sports were not just exercise, they were exercises in humiliation.
By the time I was in junior high school, I had given up any dreams of following in my father's footsteps. As an extra-curricular activity I took up song-and-dance, and while I have never doubted that my dad was happy and proud for me, I'm sure there were times when he would have rather been at a homecoming game than a Christmas concert.
Fast-forward to my post-college years, biding my time as a single guy in the big city. Eventually I found that I needed both physical activity and social interaction. Rather than joining community theater or a local chorale, I took up with a beer-league softball team and an area pick-up football game.
And in these low-pressure, amateur-quality settings, I've performed well enough that I think my dad would be impressed. At least, he would have been, a few years ago.
Because a few years ago I was a couple pounds lighter, a couple steps faster and a little bit less fragile. I used to be able to outrun a corner on a fly route or juke my way to the end zone on a bubble screen. These days, I have to be careful about juking, lest my ankles snap off.
Before today, it had been nearly a year since I stepped on to the football field. My moves have gotten even slower, if that's possible. And I suspect that when I wake up tomorrow and try to get out of bed, I'll be so sore that it will feel like I've been encased in carbonite.
But I was reminded today about the whole point of sport: exercise, teamwork and good-natured competition. It was about meeting challenges and having fun. Maybe I won't let so much time pass before my next outing -- assuming I can move my legs.
- Fmr. Supreme Court Justice Earl Warren
My father, in his high school days, was a gifted three-sport athlete, excelling at baseball, basketball and football. His football career was particularly distinguished, earning him high school All-American status as a halfback before a zealous linebacker nearly split him in two.
So it makes sense that, when I was born, he put a miniature football in my crib and started notifying recruiters for Notre Dame.
He probably started panicking when I took up soccer -- which is what all young kids in Rochester do, and which my dad considers only slightly more sporting than apple-picking.
Once I warmed up to the more traditional sports -- baseball, basketball and football -- my dad had another problem: I was not at all good at them. As a lumpy, cerebral, uncoordinated child, these sports were not just exercise, they were exercises in humiliation.
By the time I was in junior high school, I had given up any dreams of following in my father's footsteps. As an extra-curricular activity I took up song-and-dance, and while I have never doubted that my dad was happy and proud for me, I'm sure there were times when he would have rather been at a homecoming game than a Christmas concert.
Fast-forward to my post-college years, biding my time as a single guy in the big city. Eventually I found that I needed both physical activity and social interaction. Rather than joining community theater or a local chorale, I took up with a beer-league softball team and an area pick-up football game.
And in these low-pressure, amateur-quality settings, I've performed well enough that I think my dad would be impressed. At least, he would have been, a few years ago.
Because a few years ago I was a couple pounds lighter, a couple steps faster and a little bit less fragile. I used to be able to outrun a corner on a fly route or juke my way to the end zone on a bubble screen. These days, I have to be careful about juking, lest my ankles snap off.
Before today, it had been nearly a year since I stepped on to the football field. My moves have gotten even slower, if that's possible. And I suspect that when I wake up tomorrow and try to get out of bed, I'll be so sore that it will feel like I've been encased in carbonite.
But I was reminded today about the whole point of sport: exercise, teamwork and good-natured competition. It was about meeting challenges and having fun. Maybe I won't let so much time pass before my next outing -- assuming I can move my legs.
