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Older by the day

If I'm walking a little slower these days, just give me a pat on the back for getting physically active once again.

But don't pat too hard. I've been so sore recently that muscles I never knew I had were hurting. I feel like I'm already getting too old. Too old for football that is.

I already attempt to play basketball at least once a week, twice when I'm not busy (which is almost never). Then two weeks ago, some friends wanted to start playing football on Sunday afternoons once again.

I bit. Now I'm even having trouble walking on Mondays and Tuesdays.

It's all part of an effort to trim the waistline of a guy who sits at a desk writing a bit too much to stay healthy. With obesity on the rise and my wife's cooking getting more and more irresistible, the sedentary lifestyle topped off the potential recipe for disaster.

I have to wonder though, moving so much and so hard on a couple of days followed by another couple where I can't move, could that be helping any? I'm going to assume "yes" until I feel my clothes continuing to shrink.

Another thing that's potentially depressing about these backyard football games has nothing to do with feeling old. It has more to do with actually being old.

I was surrounded out there by guys who were born when I was starting high school. I was the oldest on the field by nearly a decade. I used to be able to run circles around guys I played football with, but that isn't the case anymore.

Most of them were surprised to find out how old I was this past Sunday. They told me I was a decent receiver for an old guy.

One of the high schoolers even told me his mother was only four years older than me. That hurt almost as much as the throbbing pain in my quadriceps.

I tried not to let the age difference get to me, though. That is until during one of the games, the other team assigned the most athletic guy out there to cover me.

I took it as a compliment, but it just meant I got thrown to a grand total of zero times during the game. The term "shutdown corner" kept popping into my head. (For you non-sports-fans, that's a pass defender who covers his man so well, quarterbacks won't throw in his direction.)

At least we won that game. At least I think we won that game. I really don't remember. All I know is that once it was over I waddled off the field mumbling something about needing water now. Old, out-of-shape guys tend to do that.



Web posted on Thursday, October 12, 2006













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