Old-Man Softball

We all have, or had, childhood dreams. Most of them focus on what we want to be when we grow up. Popular aspirations include a firefighter, an astronaut, a doctor, a member of the circus. Or maybe something less occupational and more physical, like taller, bigger, stronger, smarter. Me? A baseball player. That's all I wanted in life -- to be a professional baseball player. I vividly remember from my younger days my dad showcasing me around to friends and strangers alike, introducing me as (1) his son and (2) a future star in the major leagues. And I don't think he was trying to be cute either.

Well, that dream was fun while it lasted. Didn't take long for good ol' reality to pop in and inform us all that professional baseball is unfortunately only reserved for people who are actually good at baseball. If only I had known. Sure, I could catch the ball, throw the ball, and occasionally (heavy emphasis on "occasionally") hit the ball, but I wasn't good. Perhaps somewhere on the upper side of mediocre at best.

But, ah, softball. Now that I can play, friends. And I'm of course not talking about your run-of-the-mill fast-pitch softball that comes with harmonized dugout chants, hair ribbons, and sexual ambiguity. God, no, this is man's softball. Old man's softball. What's the difference, you ask? Well, for starters, we don't have any of those things I just mentioned. Rather we have slow bell-curve-like pitches, rock-scuffed bats, unkempt beards, zero game plan, and T-shirt jerseys with unknown stains from factors completely and inexplicably unrelated to softball. In this form of softball, water doesn't exist. Need to warm up? Try cooling down -- with a parking lot beer. Need to stretch? Of course you do, so streeeetch your hand out for a cold lager. Need Gatorade? Sure thing, here's a new flavor called Milwaukee's Best. Enjoy, big guy.

Yeah... old-man softball.

Now, I'll be the very first to admit that when I lose, I'm little fun. My intrinsic competitive nature convinces me that winning matters at the moment and you can't persuade me otherwise in the one-hour span directly following a game. But while I write this with emotions in neutral, I totally understand that these softball games [...deep sigh...] mean nothing. It's true. I mean, where do you go from here anyway? Even if you're in a blood-thirsty league, face it, you're playing old-man softball. You're going home to empty pizza boxes, poopy diapers, screaming kids, DVR-ed reruns, wrinkled Dockers, plumbing problems, and living partners or loved ones (if anyone) at home who just genuinely don't care what the game's outcome was.

Suddenly, hustling seems a little less important. I'm finding myself rationalizing against backing up a bad throw that might not even happen. The value of top-brand equipment no longer exceeds the shrewdness of clearance rack items. ...And yet I continue to slide into base and dive for pop-flies. I have no idea why.

The funniest part to me about this recreation is I distinctly recall as a child seeing these grown men playing this pointless softball game and thinking from the backseat of the car as it drove by, "So that's when you know your life has reached a dead end." I'm not sure if I was prodigiously provocative with that childhood observation or naïve and stupid. Now that I'm here, I'm really hoping it’s the latter.

Honestly, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Is "a professional softball player" an option?

Senior Citizens

If you make it to 75 -- even 65 -- years old, that's a pretty phenomenal feat. Between natural causes and freak accidents, there are just too many ways to die. Life, besides being a box of chocolates, is also a giant gauntlet, where our main focus above all things, whether we consciously think about it or not, is to stay alive. We're constantly on the go, dodging and side-stepping fatal pitfalls, i.e. car accidents, diseases, infections, drowning, natural disasters, terroristic acts, poisonous consumption, improper medication, mechanical malfunction, slipping and falling, getting trapped in a burning building, dropping something electric while in water, taking an athletic object to the head, being subjected to too many Brendan Fraser films, etc. Every day you don't die is a victory in my book. So if you can outlive your joints and smooth, wrinkle-free skin and the full control of your bladder, you should get whatever you want. At that point, you've basically won in life.

This is why I'm a big fan of respecting my elders, specifically senior citizens. Man, they've earned it. They've endured countless hardships and undoubtedly overcome personal tribulations. They've repeatedly kicked the devil in his crotch and just kept going, kept living. For 60 years. For 65 years. For 70, 75, 80 years. Some for 90 years, a few for 100. These are the most remarkable, heroic people in the world. A discounted movie ticket is the very least they should receive; throw 'em a complimentary bucket of popcorn, too.

I HATE to see older people working -- unless of course they simply want to. No elderly person should have to work to live. Not to bark up a political tree here, but I'm not keen on socialistic policies, and yet I find financially assisting a struggling senior citizen a very difficult motion to not support. I mean, they've paid not simply their taxes (presumably) but their dues in life as well. There will come a time in the back-half of life where we’ll all wish we had a little extra help, financial or otherwise. Aspirin and Bengay can only remedy so much.

Simply put, privilege should come with age. You seniors should be commended for weathering time. You wanna cash in on your 10% senior citizen price markdown? I say take 20% off. Yeah, it's cool. You want me to turn that darn music down? Consider it done -- I'll not only turn it down, I'll use headphones. You want that thermostat at 82 degrees? You got it -- and, hey, here's a wool sweater and a space heater, too. Heck, you can drive whatever glacial speed you want. Enjoy yourself out there. And this is coming from someone who freely admits to suffering periodic bouts of road rage (but with good reason: I mean, how hard is it for common, everyday drivers to (1) drive while talking, (2) stay out of the left-hand lane when not passing, and (3) not brake on an on-ramp? Idiots.).

The elderly are exactly what we all aspire to be: still alive many years past our current age. They have achieved mankind's underlying goal. We want it, and they did it.

Go ahead, park as close to the entrance as you want, old man. I'll walk.