This Won't Last OR Therapy
Monday after work, I was on my way to watch Marco's 7:50 game at Rose City Futsal. I go watch because: 1) I enjoy watching my friends do what they are good at; I like supporting them (see entry titled: When Mom Comes to Watch Your Games). 2) Watching live soccer (at any level of skill) is way more entertaining than TV. The story you watch unfold throughout games is unscripted and includes suspense, drama, comedy, more drama—all in one! It is like live theater, and at the same time it works against the pervasive isolation of western lifestyles.
When I told him I'd come watch him play, he had told me to bring my gear in case they needed extra players. I reluctantly brought it hoping I wouldn't need it and could just watch.
A minute before getting to the facility, Marcos called me asking if I was far, insisting that they did need extra players and to be ready to play.
And as much as I had been certain I didn't want to play, I quickly talked myself into it, remembering: The time is coming soon when I won't be able to play at all. Soon, this will be over; the end of this is nearing. Take advantage of each opportunity.
It is inevitable that time and age will take this away from me. My body will betray me.
Every so often, I am haunted by bouts of worry and dread realizing there will come a time when I will be physically unable to play. At 43, it's coming soon enough (and yet, I realize and hope there is still a bit of time left).
Aging has been interesting. In my late 20s I would spend entire days at indoor facilities playing four to six games in a row, picking up with teams that needed players. My body didn't complain. After 30, my body began to feel strains and stresses it hadn't before. From then on, it was rare if a part of my body didn't hurt. I would carry physical pain and discomfort somewhere on my body (always a rotation but mostly hips and back) throughout the days into the other aspects of my life. I had to learn strategies to minimize and manage the hurt.
My first idea was to drop down to lower divisions, assuming the demands on the body would be less. This was a bad mistake. The lower the division, the less skill and control players had over themselves and that meant more collisions. All it took for weeks of pain was one hard crash with a 250 pound human—and those were frequent in the lower divisions. But to play in the upper divisions meant competing against attributes of youth like speed, agility and athleticism.
As my 30s rolled by, I became more selective regarding the style, quality and quantity of fútbol I would play.
I also remember watching over 40s games, admiring their chess-like qualities, excited with the anticipation of being able to participate at that pace soon.
Aging calls for one to replace a reliance on physicality and speed with a more mental and tactical game. Soccer becomes beautiful then.
Fútbol is therapy (Marcos and I talk about that often). It is cathartic. It enriches my life. It activates my body. It makes my heart beat and moves my blood. It provides balance to my day, recalibrating me emotionally. It provides perspective to worries, diminishing the stresses accumulated throughout the day. It is meditation; it is lived in states of flow, moments when everything feels automatic and natural, when things just are and are perfect; those moments are cleansing. After rewarding games, I sometimes feel elevated for days; it is fuel. The anticipation of future games gives wind to sails that push through the ocean waves of life; its pull gets you through: soon you will be playing again, and so much else stops mattering.
When I am no longer able to play, I will enjoy it from a distance. I will be a spectator and my body and mind will relish it in memories. I will possibly continue to write it into life in these insignificant entries of story and thought.
When I told him I'd come watch him play, he had told me to bring my gear in case they needed extra players. I reluctantly brought it hoping I wouldn't need it and could just watch.
A minute before getting to the facility, Marcos called me asking if I was far, insisting that they did need extra players and to be ready to play.
And as much as I had been certain I didn't want to play, I quickly talked myself into it, remembering: The time is coming soon when I won't be able to play at all. Soon, this will be over; the end of this is nearing. Take advantage of each opportunity.
It is inevitable that time and age will take this away from me. My body will betray me.
Every so often, I am haunted by bouts of worry and dread realizing there will come a time when I will be physically unable to play. At 43, it's coming soon enough (and yet, I realize and hope there is still a bit of time left).
Aging has been interesting. In my late 20s I would spend entire days at indoor facilities playing four to six games in a row, picking up with teams that needed players. My body didn't complain. After 30, my body began to feel strains and stresses it hadn't before. From then on, it was rare if a part of my body didn't hurt. I would carry physical pain and discomfort somewhere on my body (always a rotation but mostly hips and back) throughout the days into the other aspects of my life. I had to learn strategies to minimize and manage the hurt.
My first idea was to drop down to lower divisions, assuming the demands on the body would be less. This was a bad mistake. The lower the division, the less skill and control players had over themselves and that meant more collisions. All it took for weeks of pain was one hard crash with a 250 pound human—and those were frequent in the lower divisions. But to play in the upper divisions meant competing against attributes of youth like speed, agility and athleticism.
As my 30s rolled by, I became more selective regarding the style, quality and quantity of fútbol I would play.
I also remember watching over 40s games, admiring their chess-like qualities, excited with the anticipation of being able to participate at that pace soon.
Aging calls for one to replace a reliance on physicality and speed with a more mental and tactical game. Soccer becomes beautiful then.
Fútbol is therapy (Marcos and I talk about that often). It is cathartic. It enriches my life. It activates my body. It makes my heart beat and moves my blood. It provides balance to my day, recalibrating me emotionally. It provides perspective to worries, diminishing the stresses accumulated throughout the day. It is meditation; it is lived in states of flow, moments when everything feels automatic and natural, when things just are and are perfect; those moments are cleansing. After rewarding games, I sometimes feel elevated for days; it is fuel. The anticipation of future games gives wind to sails that push through the ocean waves of life; its pull gets you through: soon you will be playing again, and so much else stops mattering.
When I am no longer able to play, I will enjoy it from a distance. I will be a spectator and my body and mind will relish it in memories. I will possibly continue to write it into life in these insignificant entries of story and thought.
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