An Old Man Holds Court

An Old Man Holds Court

John Pual Derryberry

Well, it happened- I found a consistent, open gym to play basketball at in my town. Between the pandemic, two girls, work, and not knowing the basketball scene, I hadn't played basketball in a while. So there I was, stretching, jogging, and dribbling a ball, all while hoping I didn't rupture my Achilles tendon. I will need that tendon to walk and hike up the Inca trail this summer. My nerves grew as I saw the crowd's youth enter the gym. I figured I'd be one of the older guys, not the most senior guy on the court.

I mean, everyone knows this day will come. Attempting to stay engaged with the sport you loved as a kid turns into the old man hanging on to faded youthful dreams. Can I, for one more time, will my body to do what it did 10, 15, years ago? As we played, I discovered I was the oldest guy by a decade. And it was the first time in eight years that I had played five-on-five basketball-- long since the transition from basketball player to full-time, long-distance runner had occurred. I was one 40-year-old attempting to keep up with a bunch of mid--20-year-olds. My hopes were dashed that I could just guard the other slow, old guy and get a good cardio workout. Most importantly I hoped one of these guys knew how to work a defibrillator.

Sometimes I feel the part of our brains that tells us to be cautious is broken in mine. Because, I promised myself no diving on the floor for a loose ball. Just like I tell myself a lot before big meetings, do not talk much. Well, soon enough I’m on the ground trying to snag the first loose ball within three feet of me. One of the young kids said, "oh, the 40-year-old means business." I chuckled as I peeled myself off the floor, after successfully securing the loose ball. Yup, the cautious part of my brain is broken. I'll tell you privately, that's probably a good thing, but some days I wish it worked better.

As for being the old guy, I felt pretty good about my showing. Didn't roll my ankle, made some shots, and even landed not one but two behind-the-back passes. I guess I still have a little bit of the basketball secret sauce. Even worked in an old-time, up-and-under move and heard the guy guarding me say, I just got worked by a 40-year-old. I smiled, while transitioning to defense, and then watched the younger guy go flying by me, with no chance of me stopping him. Too slow, too flat-footed, and it was my third straight game. I was gassed; I was reminded that running shape is not basketball shape because my lungs were on fire.

These young guys did the same as I did during downtime when I was 25 and playing with my friends. Recounting high school and college games that went sideways on them; ways they would play differently now if they could go back. They talked of coaches they loved and hated; wondered what teammates were up to now. This is how it goes with activities we are passionate about. We tell stories and remember what ifs, what could have been, and what was. Then, if we do it right, we become the old guy in the place at some point; hopefully not chasing glory days, but understanding the passage of time and how we get to fight against it ever so slightly.

Yup, I'm the old guy at the game. I don't chase being the best player anymore. Instead, I hunt for a play or two, pulling a move to remind these kids I still have it. Much like the 70 and up crowd at long races who wear shirts like: "I'm 70; why are you going so slow," as they pass you. And if I'm being honest, when I have to hang up the sneakers for good, I'll look for that racing shirt. It's a different game playing or running as the old guy, but not any less fun. Just a human, seeing what I'm capable of, and the day we stop chasing, that is the day we truly start dying. And that is one of the saddest days in everyone's life. The day they give up what they love, not because they have to, but because they stopped trying.