This Sunday feels important. Not in a global sense. It’s not like Russia is signing a peace agreement with Ukraine, the Fed is lowering interest rates, or all of Florida will be rebuilt in a day. It just feels important to me.
On Sunday morning, for the first time in over a year, I will drag my old ass out of bed, brush my teeth, put on shorts, two pairs of socks, a knee brace, leggings and a raggedy tank top and head to the gym for my weekly pick-up hoop game.
I’ll be honest, I’m scared. I’m not 100%. Nowhere near it really. The big toe on my right foot still doesn’t bend much. It’s stiff as a board, like Ginni Thomas in front of a Congressional hearing stiff.
I’ve been waiting, patiently, for the nerves in my spine to heal and to regain full use of my foot. But here’s the thing. It may never fully heal. No one really knows. The surgeon said healing could take place for at least a year post surgery. That would be next February! He also said I should listen to my body and what my body is saying is, ‘Hey Rich, put down the Salt-N-Straw Sea Salt Caramel Ice Cream cuz we aren’t exactly getting any younger over here. Might as well get out there and see how it goes.’
I realize this whole thing is stupid and more than a little pathetic. In December, I’ll be 52 years old. Thirty years past anything even remotely representing anyone’s athletic prime. Shouldn’t I have picked up another hobby by now? Shouldn’t hiking or biking or watching every Star Wars series on Disney+ be enough to fulfill me?
Maybe I just haven’t found the right one. Maybe I need to take piano lessons and learn to play Tiny Dancer from start to finish so I have something valuable to add to social gatherings. Or cooking? After watching The Bear, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how lovely it would be to have someone call me Chef and mean it.
I don’t want to play pickleball. I just don’t.
What I want is my body back. And my basketball life. Basketball has always been my passion. The one thing I did better than most. The one thing that gave me the greatest joy. Why should I give that up if I’m not ready? No one told Biden to give up his presidential dreams. Or Royko to give up writing his column. No one tells Lebron or Brady to stop playing. So maybe I don’t have a dietician or a cyrotherapist. Who does?
This Sunday morning, I’m headed back out there to see if my body can handle the rigors of old man pick-up basketball. Win or lose, I know one thing for sure. When I lace em up and run up and down that court a few times, when the sweat starts dripping down my back, and I feel like I can’t quite get enough oxygen in my lungs, it’ll be the happiest I’ve been in a year.
The older I get, the more I realize just how much that matters.
