The Older I Get, the Better I Was

My dad had vascular surgery on Tuesday of this week; which makes 18 "procedures" since 1991. The old man's been through it, and he's out-toughed them every time. Heck, the last one in October of 2008 should have killed him and didn't, but now he's 2 years weaker and it's tough to watch as he battles yet another lengthy and painful recovery. He's drugged up on pain medication, and sedatives which are supposed to help him sleep. Our conversation was superficial to say the least, and I'm sure he'll have no recollection of my even being there.

Sitting with him tonight it was difficult to believe this was the same guy who played freshman basketball for Indiana University in 1956-57. The guy who used to play one-on-one with Archie Dees and Hallie Bryant. The guy who taught me most of what I know about playing baseball and basketball. The guy who used to pitch to me for hours on end when I was a kid. The guy who used to be the star of his lawyer's league softball team. The former president of the Indiana State Bar for crying out loud. The guy I visited in the hospital tonight was a mere shell of that man, and it made me think "how in God's name can I prevent myself from getting older?"

When I was young, I was big; but always relatively fast and very strong. I was coordinated. I could shoot the lights out. I could hit for power and average. I could hit a 6-iron over trees, and I could putt (probably because I could comfortably bend over to read a green). I could play tennis for hours and not get tired. I could go through 2-a-days and be excited to come back the next day after a long soak in an ice tub. And I could stay out all night drinking and chasing women with my buddies. Now? I can still shoot, but it's not as easy to get open. I can hit a little, but first base is now farther away. Golf has taken a back seat to kids and work, but I get out once in a while. My hope is I don't turn into my uncle Bob and pretend I should be able to shoot 75 without practicing or playing more than once every 2 months. And I know I could barely hit a 6-iron over a rose bush, let alone a maple tree. Tennis is a rumor, though I'm still waiting on a call from my friend Marq who swears he's gonna' do that soon. My last 2-a-day was about 18 months ago, and some of the married guys who read this will actually be impressed by that, which is sad. And the same buddies and I now have boys night out by appointment, which is to say it happens about once every 3 months or so. Damn, I miss those guys; and I won't say whether or not we still chase women. But if we DID, it's doubtful we'd have the game to catch any of 'em anymore.

My point is, seeing my dad makes me realize I don't have much time left to be a "doer." I've somehow reached middle age, and no one told me it was coming. I'm 41 and my mind says I can still do everything I used to. I still do flips off the diving board and I still play as many sports as I can. I still exercise and have found real pleasure in riding my bike. But then I think to myself a few of my younger and "in better shape" friends are playing basketball as we speak, and I'm sitting here writing a blog.

Starting tomorrow and assuming tomorrow actually means something, I'm looking for a new hobby. Something new that maybe I've never tried before. I've already broached the subject of flying lessons, and I don't think that'd go over very well with the control tower, if you know what I mean (the married guys will...this is becoming a theme). I've also tried swimming, and while I love it, there's a basketball hoop at the pool I have access to, and laps just don't hold my concentration. I am amazed though, at the lift I can get in the pool! At one point, I could jump high enough to dunk a volleyball on a 10-foot rim. Now? I only elevate like that in 4 feet of water with a deflated rubber basketball, dunking on a 9-year old rim and vinyl backboard. Getting old sucks, but I'm lucky I'm still young by Dad's standards. Watching him get old before my eyes is one of the hardest things I've ever done. If your dad's around, call him or go give him a hug. You'll never regret it.

RT Brightman