When we “retired” to South Carolina in September, I didn’t realize it would mean I was coming out of retirement as an athlete. Well, sort of an athlete, or a very loose description of what that once meant. I’ve joked for years that I’m no longer an athlete, just an athletic supporter. Pun intended.
Last April during a “NHL” (Nittany Hockey League) game at Pegula Ice Arena, I had a “TLC” moment (Temporary Loss of Coordination) and managed to slam into the end boards, separating my shoulder. My old doc, Bob Mooney, gave me a tongue lashing about giving up “that kids’ game” since he knew we were getting ready to retire. He reminded me of my stage of life and recommended I concentrate on golf and a little pickleball.
I finally had to come to grips with the reality that I was going to have to check out of hockey as an athlete. It was heartbreaking to sell my equipment and be relegated to an occasional pond hockey game with my only other skating coming when teaching three weeks of hockey camps in Sun Valley, Idaho.
So, it was off to South Carolina for the good life of golfing, pickleball, leisurely bike rides, working out in the clubhouse gym and swimming laps before drinking piña coladas in the hot tub.
Not so fast. My new neighbors were all playing in the Sun City Softball Saturday League and appealed to the old athlete in me to play ball. I hadn’t played competitive softball since I was 43 and partially tore my labrum and rotator cuff making a deep throw from shortstop for the St. Paul Saints in the highly competitive Centre County church league. I did play in a charity game in State College a few years ago and managed to tear my hamstring just running to first base!
I was so done with softball I got rid of my gloves, bats and balls, never imagining I would take up the game again in my 60s. Given my old shoulder wounds, I signed up to be a pitcher, catcher or first baseman, thinking I wouldn’t have to throw overhand that often. I didn’t realize putting my positions in that order would be interpreted as wanting to pitch first and foremost. I assumed it meant that whatever team I was on would put me where I was best suited to help.
Next thing I know I’m at evaluation day with all the other “rookies.” I told my wife I’d be back in 30-45 minutes. Yeah, right! Everyone started out in the outfield taking fly balls, then took grounders at third base and then took a turn catching the throws at first base. I was first up alphabetically so I hit first, and after your 10th swing you had to run out your final hit. My popped hamstring was all I thought about. Fortunately, I hit a line drive over the second baseman and could trot to first. Whew! Halfway through tryouts and I wasn’t hurt.
Not having pitched since I was in my 20s, I was a bit surprised to find out I was the only rookie who signed up to be considered as a pitcher. So, after I batted, I pitched to ALL the other players. It was like playing dodgeball with all the hits right back at me. I took a couple off the shins and nearly got one in the teeth, but only my catlike reflexes (ha) prevented a trip to the dentist. As soon as I got home, I ordered field hockey shin guards to save my bruised shins.
What I discovered was the brain remembers what it’s supposed to do but the body isn’t so willing to cooperate. When I got home after the two-hour “evaluation” I was sore all over. At that moment I could hear Doc Mooney in my mind yelling at me to stop playing kids games.
I got the all-important email telling me I had been selected as a pitcher by the J&R Ice Cream team. We were given a PDF of the rules and told to read them thoroughly. My head was spinning, and I’m sure I will need to be reminded about the rules a lot. Hmmm, maybe they take this more seriously than I expected.
Then I saw our team’s practice, exhibition and regular season game schedule. In my best, Allen Iverson impression, I thought to myself, “Practice? We’re talking practice?”
At our first practice we were given our uniforms and hats. I wanted to throw up when I saw my team’s colors were orange, black and white. Flyers colors? Are you kidding me? That was hard for this Yinzer to swallow. We met our team sponsors, Judi and Reg Greiner, who are the nicest couple, and who actually give us ice cream after our games! It really was déjà vu all over again. In our final exhibition game, we won 22 – 17, but I walked 11 batters (throwing strikes was harder than I thought). Unfortunately, we lost our starting shortstop and best hitter, Andy, to, you guessed it, a popped hamstring.
At the opening ceremony on Feb. 25, all 12 teams were on the field with announcers and the national anthem sung by a resident of Sun City. Team and individual photos were taken, and the season was off and running, or jogging.
We played the last game of the day at 4 p.m. and lost a heartbreaker 10-8, leaving the bases loaded in the bottom of the seventh. It didn’t matter. It was a blast. I had three hits, a few RBIs, and scored twice. My pitching wasn’t bad, as I only walked four batters and I only made one throwing error on a bad throw to the plate. Most importantly, I didn’t get hurt.
I have discovered the secret to being an “athlete” again at this stage of life. Stretch, stretch and stretch some more. Put a Salonpas patch on my back and shoulder. Take three Motrin before and after. Lay on the Homedics massage pad and neck massager for 20 minutes. Use my Theragun, get ice packs and go sit in the clubhouse hot tub later that night.
If all else fails, there is the “self-medication” route that includes Concrete cocktails and Porch Parties.
I am not sure how long I can keep this athlete thing going. Golf, softball and pickleball, sometimes all three in the same day. Factor in the hikes, bike rides and spin class and that will have to change. Perhaps I will have to revert to being just an athletic supporter. Ah, to be 62 and have such first world problems.
