This is not new. This is not the first time I've heard it. However, this is the first time I really felt it. Age has crept up on me. And boy, did it give me a big kick in the gutter.
I must say, that I was extremely enthusiastic about taking to the pitch when the offer came: A friendly match with like-aged opponents, for a like-aged team. How bad could it be? Then I got news that a buddy from my formative years had passed on. Mat Awet was my age, born of the same year. Mortality bit a little deeper. My mental age jumped from sixteen to thirty-eight in an instant.
Nevertheless, my thirty-eight year-old mind was just as keen to reclaim the glory on the field. Never mind that my last soccer game was two whole years ago: a kickaround with my little daughter. During the said interval, I probably ran to the toilet three times. And jogged my deteriorating memory on five occasions. That ought be sufficient exercise, I reasoned.
This afternoon, I drove to the shopping centre. In one receipt, I acquired my pre-requisites: A pair of Adidas boots, a pair of Adidas socks and a pair of Adidas shin-guards. I've already two children, so I saved on the ball-guards. An hour after the transaction, my trusty brother in-law drove up to my front gate and honked the inevitable: The time of reckoning has arrived.
So he drove me to the padang where the match was to take place. We were early. I put on my spanking new gear and I decided to do some warming up. I stretched. Shockingly, I could not quite reach as far as I set out to. Then I decided to jog the length of the field. Like in a horror movie, the end of the field seem to stretch out further as I approach it. So much for warming up. My new team mates arrive in trickles. Five Dutch, two Italians, two Nigerians, a Korean-Dutch and three of us Malaysians. The two Africans were the youngest and had enough fitness for the whole team. Our opponents were probably older than us on average. But they seemed fitter. Yes, I wasn't worried about their skills. Just their fitness. Skill and experience I possess. Fitness, I have not. When asked about my favoured position, I chose defense. I may have been a lethal striker but I thought: I may be deadly in the first 10 minutes but after that, I'm dead.
The whistle blew. After 15 minutes, we were leading 2-0. I haven't made any blunders, that was more important for me. After about 30 minutes, I found that I was merely willing myself forward. Spirit is willing but flesh is weak? Hogwash! Even the spirit was cashing out.
I then did the noblest deed I could muster in my hazy brain: Ask to be substituted. During the subsequent corner kick after I walked off, the team conceded a goal. I felt selfishly glad I wasn't on the pitch. For surely I'd have contributed to that goal against us. The first half then ended 2-1. I just watched the second half, hoping that nobody would ask to be substituted.
The whistle blew. We won 4-3. WE? I suppose I had a part in it, I gave my all for at least 35 minutes. Though it may not amount to much, but it was my ALL.
At the drink up after the game with my new-found friends, the captain voiced his appreciation for my game. He also asked for my passport and birth date. For future matches and tournaments. I have been accepted into the team! Whatever I did was good enough.
A sense of relief washed over me. Followed by the dawning of a realisation:
I SHOULD NOT EXPECT TO BE SIXTEEN WHEN I AM THIRTY-EIGHT. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!
After all, who would expect me to run around like a teenager, except myself?
I am looking forward to the next game. In the meantime, I may do well to actually go out for a walk in the mornings or evenings. And cut down on second helpings. After all, I am not sixteen. Not like the guy in the picture.
Crossing The Queensboro Bridge
