Old Man Smitty

When I was 17, the pitching staff on my American Legion baseball team (Go Post 121!) was beset with injuries.  As a result, the bulk of the workload fell to me.  At a typical Saturday doubleheader, I’d open with a complete game and then pitch the first few innings of game two.  Then, on Sunday, I’d throw a few more innings before the ol’ right arm finally gave out.  In between I’d go through the motions of stretching and wrapping my arm in ice.

I share this recollection because I joined an amateur hardball team this year, and recently opened my season with a 3.2 inning outing.  I stretched before and iced after, just like old times.  My next appearance came 10 days later in relief.  My arm was so sore when I warmed up that I had to slather on some of my 40-year-old teammate’s arthritis cream (basically industrial strength Icy Hot) to get through my two inning stint.

Why am I struggling to bounce back from something that would have once been so completely non-taxing?  I mean, I think I’m still in decent shape.  I play tennis and basketball.  I bike.  I watch my calories (somewhat).  Even the aches and pains that have periodically flared up in the past (knees, back, etc.) could always be pinpointed to other non-age-related factors.

I know that as I get into a regular rhythm, my arm will start to hold up a little better.  I may even, at some point, regain a semblance of the ballplayer I was all those summers ago.  But, I also realize that it’s going to take a heck of a lot more than my old “rehab” routine between games and between seasons to keep healthy and fit for action.

All in all, it’s just a sore arm – nothing to lose sleep over.  But that’s not the point.  The point is, I’ve finally been hit square between the eyes with the realization that I’ll never be able to do things like a kid again without consequences.  It’s a little disheartening.  Until this spring, I honestly thought I still had the physical prowess of a teenager; that it was just a matter of “flipping the switch” to get through any strenuous activity, athletic or otherwise.

Evidently, that’s not the case.  I’m faced with a new realization that my prime has passed, and that extended preparation and recovery (and painkillers) will each become an increasing part of my routine.  Like generations before me, I’ll adapt and continue through life in this new reality.  But from now on, when I look in the mirror, I’ll no longer be staring at the illusion of the skinny high school jock that I once was.  Instead, I guess I’ll see what everyone else sees – a somewhat paunchy thirtysomething with a slightly receding hairline and a goatee that’s speckled with gray.

I guess there’s nothing to do now but get myself a comfortable rocking chair, a pitcher of Arnold Palmers and a subscription to Golf Digest.