Washed up

I recently came to the realization that I'm a nineteen year-old washed up athlete.  Bummer.  Considering that my life plan had always been to make the big leagues, this is a pretty disappointing situation.  Instead of being in hot pursuit of that goal, I have a bad knee, an iffy shoulder, my athletic prime is two years gone, and I take interhall football and pick-up basketball way too seriously.  Now, my vow to never become Papa Billingsley is getting tough to do.

Young William and son, circa 2040

Sports are a big part of life, and competitive sports are something that's really pretty hard to directly replace.  I'm currently trying to channel the energy that I used to put into sports into other things.  It's working fairly well; I'm can get excited about it, I still have that drive to be successful, but it's just not quite the same.  In sports, it's pretty much encouraged to try to hurt the opponent as a form of retaliation, but apparently that doesn't transfer to other aspects of life, as I found out when I tried to beat up our club sponsor when she forgot to reserve a room for a major meeting last semester.

I always loved baseball more than just about anything.  It's the only thing I ever wanted to do with my life.  Just swinging a bat or scooping up a ground ball or throwing batting practice or chasing down fly balls or pitching in the bullpen made me feel like there was nothing else in the world.  The diamond is the thinnest place I have.

Unfortunately, I can't play ball anymore.  It's tough to find enough guys to field a real game, and unlike other sports, pure athleticism doesn't really translate into much unless you have a skill set already, which is why pickup baseball doesn't have the same popularity as pickup football or basketball.  I'm not complaining.  I really don't think I'd ever want to play on an uncompetitive level now that I've reached the levels of competition that I have.  In basketball you can create your own competition.  Even if the defense is weak you can take tough shots.  In baseball, if the pitcher can't find the plate or puts meatballs over it, there really isn't much of a challenge.

I realize that it's kind of pathetic.  I understand that I have my whole life in front of me, but for a kid who was given a bat at the age of two, it's a hard habit to break.  I've played ball (I've been reminding myself this whole time to use past tense and it's just not working) since before I could put together a complete sentence, before I went to school, before I spent my first dollar, way before I earned my first dollar, before I touched a piano or a drumstick, before I knew Stuart, before I had ever talked to a girl that wasn't related to me, before anything.  It's been the one constant throughout my entire life.  In the winter I'd throw a tennis ball against our basement wall for hours and in the summer it was like one long game, inning after inning after wonderful inning.  I played for the Lakewood Vultures with Michael, and we had miraculous comebacks seemingly every night against my dad, who represented the Crystal Lake Cougars, the Turnberry Titans, and whoever else was in that league.  I played for the Prairie State Cardinals with Stuart for much longer than was ever really socially acceptable for a kid to have imaginary teammates and opponents.  Becoming an Indian was something that I thought would just happen, because I never dreamed of anything else.

Up until recently, this was what I assumed work attire was

Like I said before, I've been working on filling the cavity that the loss of baseball has left in my life with various other options.  Most of all, I've learned to love the little moments that sports give.  I love putting on a football helmet, I love the way a basketball feels when it leaves your fingers and you know it's going in, I love catching passes, I love starting the fast break.  Very few other places in my life (outside of possibly music in some situations) can provide such great enjoyment from such seemingly meaningless moments.

I wrote the first two paragraphs of this a few days ago, on the suggestion of a ginger, but I couldn't really see what angle to take on it.  Then, tonight, at 2:00 in the morning, after playing an hour and a half of pickup basketball and watching an hour of He Got Game, I finally realized what being washed up really meant to me.  Maybe I'm not as unlucky as I thought I was.  Maybe it's a blessing in disguise.  Until my senior year of high school, when I realized how quickly things were going to end, I probably would have used a lame knee to get out of practice.  I would have gone inside instead of hitting an extra bucket of balls.  Now, I'm finally realizing how much beauty is inside every moment for me, and I need to cherish it. 

The same must go for life.  Life is about experiences and moments.  It's not a checklist.  I want to take advantage of those moments.  I want to know that I appreciated every special moment when it happens, instead of looking back and realizing I missed it.  While I may be washed up in the literal sense, while I'll never get to step into a batters box or hit another meaningful shot in basketball, the lessons I learned from walking away from what I love can be carried elsewhere.  Maybe I'm only getting started.