Old Man River
Can I tell you something?
I’m getting old. I’m not an “old man” – where the data point is that identifies you as such, I’m not sure, but I would argue 65 is shy of the mark – and I’m not anyone’s old man because I don’t have children. But using a hackneyed euphemism to describe my predicament, I’m definitely getting up there. Given average life expectancy these days, and factoring in health risks I’ve happily taken, there’s a high probability I’m playing the fourth quarter of my life. And it feels like it. Maybe I could’ve paced myself better and not logged so many minutes when I was in my prime, but there are days now when it seems all I can do is bend over, grab my shorts, and yell at my teammates.
There are any number of other silly sports analogies I could use to try to evoke the feeling of getting old – apologies to my readers who have already achieved old man status – but suffice it to say there is a certain amount of physical decline.