Ever since I could remember I was faster than the average person. I was able to learn and pick up things faster than most. I was almost always the kid with the most pace on the playground or in a sporting event. My hands were quicker than all the boxers I met in the ring. This not to say that my speed made me a great scholar or athlete, it just allowed me to compete with others who were a bit slower, but had different valuable gifts or better technical skills. This gift of quickness was my benchmark in comparing myself to others, especially when I matched up with them on the soccer pitch. It was what I used to determine my age in a physical sort of way. My pace earned me the moniker Cheetah, and that eventually became the name of the teams I managed or coached.
I played soccer over 15 years as an adult. I had incredible pace and as a result became a center forward whose main task was to score goals for my team(s). My teammates would make long passes that would allow me to run after the ball (Greyhound mentality). It should be known, that I dislike running, especially when not accompanied by my iPod. However, if you place a soccer ball in front of me, I can run and run and run and love it. On many occasions for a decade of more I would catch up to the ball sent in front of me and either get tripped by the defender trying to track me down or would increase my distance of separation and allow my opponents to see #13 on the back of my jersey as I inched closer to the goal. At 35 years old, I was out running 18 year olds on the pitch. I felt 15 years younger.
Something happened at the age of 38. I could still run fast and keep up with everyone, but I was no faster than the young guns that I used to pass by. Four years later, I lost a second step. I could out run 30 year old guys, but not those 25 or younger. The gap between my chronological age and my imagined physical fit age narrowed. I took a couple of years off and at age 45 I joined a team where I was 10 years older than the next oldest player on the team. At that point in my life I was not physically fit and carried 15-20 more pounds than the last time I had played. About every 3rd game that season, I looked like I could run with the pack and keep up. The rest of the season was spent on defense playing catch up and tending to arthritic knees. It became more pain than pleasure, so I hung up my boots after that season and continued to play indoor and coach my son’s club soccer team.
Fast forward to several years later or present day. I have dropped those 15-20 pounds and received medical treatment for my arthritis that allows me to run without pain and fluid build up that requires drainage. I am certainly not fit to play a full soccer game, but am not totally sedentary. I generally spend an hour or more every Sunday afternoon on an open field with a couple of soccer balls and my iPod. I am in constant motion; sprinting, jogging, kicking and walking.
I still coach the club soccer team my son once played on (www.celticunitedfc.com). The boys on this team are 16 – 19 years of age, full of raging testosterone and speed. I participate in their quarter mile warm up run during most practices (2x / week). The rule is if anyone on the team is behind me at the end of the run, then they have to run another quarter mile. On most occasions I trail the pack because I burn out after the initial lead, but I don’t finish an embarrassing last, or they might just be kind and not want to be cruel to an old man. At least I force them to sprint during the initial 100 yards. The discouraging reality is that when I am out of gas, I am out of gas. No reserves to call upon to push forward with a final kick like in the old days. Last week, I had a burst of pace that came from years past that resulted in 14 of the 18 having to run another quarter mile. One of the boys told me, “Coach I never knew you had it in you. You are really fast.” At that moment, I felt 35 again and pondered if I got a bit more fit, could I still play with guys 15 years younger than me?
No comments:
Post a Comment