Deciphering the Signals
I’m not sure how to interpret the signals. At my age sore knees and shoulders, an aching back, and hands having trouble gripping things just doesn’t sit well with me. Clearly these are the signs of not being a young man anymore. This is nothing new to me, obviously. The early indicator was the receding hairline and thinning of the hair on top of my head just before I turned 30. More recently white hairs have been making an appearance in my sideburns and whiskers. Both of these early indicators can be somewhat hidden with a simple razor. Walking like a cripple, bending over like a fat boy, and having difficulty raising a pint glass are gonna require something more than a razor. This time I’m trading in my Gillette for 800mg of Ibuprofen.
I went from a head coach of an 8-9 year old Kiwanis Youth Baseball team, to being told I wasn’t needed whatsoever. Next stop was the Park District and I was assigned to be the head coach of a 12-14 year old Pony League team. A week or so later the Park District cancelled the season. A week after that the season was back on, but the 5 teams had been reduced to two teams and I was now an aassistant coach. I’m OK with this; I probably didn’t need to jump in as head coach the very first season back anyhow.
Wednesday was our first practice (read: Wednesday is the first time Sloeber has picked up a bat, glove, or baseball in 16 years). In hindsight I probably should have played catch and gone to the batting cage before practice, but the key word here is “hindsight” because I did not do so. So when the first time the ball was thrown at me I wasn’t quite ready. I did catch it, thankfully, but I’m also pretty sure I flinched and/or ducked. Now I just had to return the 9 inch hardball back to where it came from. I hesitate to describe it as “throwing like a girl” because the person I was playing catch with – the same one that threw the ball hard hard enough moments earlier to make me flinch – is a 12 year old named Jenny. In all my years of athletic participation I have never faced a female competitively and yet here I was now trying to coach one. One that seemingly can throw and catch better than me for now. Thankfully she is the only girl on the team thereby assuring me anyone else that embarrasses me is of at least the same gender as I.
And that was the easy part (if you can accept getting shown up by a 12 year old girl as easy). Now comes the time that coach is suppose to hit fly balls to his outfielders. More keywords are present – “suppose to” – because I didn’t. Or more accurately I couldn’t. Five swing-and-a-miss later and a host of outfielders laughing at me I decide my coaching skills are best exhibited if I’m in the outfield with the players while one of their teamates hits them the fly balls.
So Thursday I make sure before practice I spend about an hour in the local batting cage. Now I can’t say why I couldn’t hit a ball the day before, but Thursday is a drastically different situation. I receive 18 “pitches” per token and I’m on token number 3 before I fail to make contact on a swing. Most of the swings are good solid contact, too. So much so that I get into it, drop a few more dollars into tokens and work up a good sweat reliving my youth. Practice is an inter-squad scrimmage and therefore my re found skills stay in the dark but I do get to play catch with several of the players to help them warm up.
And now Friday. Anytime you relive youth it generally catches up with you the following day and today is not an exception. The batting cage and playing catch has caught up with me. As a single male you might think I have worked up a fair amount of strength in my hands and calluses on my palms but apparently not. This morning’s hot shower made my new blisters very well known. Besides the blisters gripping the bat has also made my hands very sore and stiff. Typing is a chore to get my fingers to bend and grasping anything small or heavy is out of the question. Obviously swinging a bat is not something my back was prepared for. And my shoulder? I haven’t felt this kind of pain since I was a kid throwing 80+ mph fastballs for 9 innings.
So how should one interpret these signals from your body? Clearly age has set in. Does the soreness and pain tell me I’m too old to be doing this? Or perhaps it is a sign that I need to become more active to prohibit the onslaught of aging.
I remember when I climbed upon the bicycle for the first time in over a decade about a year ago. Much like now, back then I was quickly impressed by my lack of youth. I couldn’t ride but a mile or two without being out of breath or having my knees ache for a week. A year later I ride 20 miles a day at least 4 times per week and usually sneak in a fifth day with considerably more mileage – sometimes up to 50 miles. Those 50 miles today hurt less than the first 2 miles did a year ago.
I’ll keep throwing balls and swinging bats (and gobbling Ibuprofen for now), thank you.
