There is something about middle-age passion: the sudden discovery of feelings you hadn't felt in years. The illicit defiance of the rules governing how we should behave as we grow more mature. The snickers of friends who see you falling so foolishly for one last, as they say in Congress, "youthful indiscretion."
As I'm sure you've guessed, I'm talking about sports.
Recently, my wife has been complaining that, unbeknownst to her, she married a jock. She announces this in the tone of voice that suggests she considers this grounds for annulment. There were signs, of course, of what was to come. March Madness and autumn Sundays in front of the tube. When cable arrived, so did ESPN.
But for a long time, it wasn't much more than that, and since TV sports involves neither physical absence nor physical risk, its impact on our marriage was minimal.
Personally, I blame it on the kids. When the boys started playing sports, I began to think about long days spent on dusty fields and hot asphalt. In my youth, we used to play football until it was too dark to see the ball. In summer, we'd play softball in cul-de-sacs until the neighbors chased us out.
Watching my kids running full tilt down a basketball court, I knew that they were having more fun than any Nordic Track could ever provide, and I envied them. When they started playing soccer, a sport I had long admired but never played, my envy grew. If I must eventually go gently into that good night, would it be so wrong if I pulled a few more muscles, sprained a few more limbs "just for old times" sake?
This was my frame of mind when a colleague called my attention to a local Ultimate Frisbee club. Ultimate Frisbee was probably invented by soccer players and long-distance runners, neither of which typically describe members of the senior set. Ultimate is played on a football field with a stationary thrower and a constantly moving team of receivers, like soccer. The disk is moved down the field in a series of quick throws, and a score comes when the Frisbee is caught in the end zone. If the disk is dropped or intercepted, it immediately goes over to the other team. Ultimate involves nonstop running and quick shifts from offense to defense. It is played by both women and men, particularly college students and twentysomethings.
I am neither, but every Sunday, snow, rain or shine, I try to make time to play, and during the week I run laps in a desperate effort to build up my endurance. Like all passions, it foolishly ignores reality: A middle-aged guy trying to chase after a jackrabbit in cleats is insane, but can any college kid know the satisfaction that comes with making it through a game without injury and perhaps with a score or two as well?
My wife has gone through all the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. She let me reschedule Mother's Day so I could get to a game, an act of selflessness that certainly counts as an early Father's Day present. She may not fully understand this late-blooming passion, but she can see the effect it has on me and has grown to appreciate the reduced stress and earlier bedtimes that come with jockdom.
In the great sports movie "Chariots of Fire," the Christian runner says, "When I run, I can feel His pleasure." When it comes to middle-aged jocks, we may be more likely to hear His laughter. But if He can have a sense of humor about it, so can I.
God gave us our muscles and our desire, and He did not equip us with these things just so we could sit around and watch our midriffs grow. Even as the clock ticks on for all of us, we can still learn the lessons of sports anew: teamwork, selflessness, healthy competitiveness and, most especially, humility. I like to think of it as a very sweaty retreat.
I don't think it any accident that St. Paul used racing imagery in his letters. Sports are quintessentially human, and as such they reveal both the best and the worst in our natures. Which is what I hope my wife will keep in mind when I say those two words sure to chill her heart: "summer league."
Greg Erlandson - editor in chief of Our Sunday Visitor
Reprinted with permission from Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.