Racquetball

2/21/10

The other day I played racquetball with my thirty-year-old son. For him, it was probably just another recreational game, a chance to spend some time with his father, or sensing my sixty-eight years the opportunity to let the old war horse relive his prior tournament days. For me, it was a chance to feel the rush of competition again, against the odds, against time itself.

I have done similar things in the past, like challenging macho guys in the grocery line, the liberal use of the middle finger on the highway, or trying to race a twenty-three-year-old hunk across a Samoan lagoon. Each time I come close to the precipice, so far have managed not to fall off, knowing you only go over the edge once.

Please don't misread me. I am not a brave person, definitely not a hero, nor seeker of adulation. It is the internal quest to see what makes me tick, and listening to that wonderful sound of my heart pounding out the beats of life.

Today I am sore. Aching muscles and joints show up in the stiffness of my walk, the slowness of my pace. Some may call me foolish or stupid. The only consolation is knowing my son is moving a little slower today too.