I've had a couple of hits so far. Two, to be exact. But that's it. I've bounced off of several folks, though, if that counts for anything. Hmmm. Time to change tactics.
Earlier this season, we ended up playing Ironman again (that's when you only have 10 players...no substitutes to allow your guys to rest), and I ended up facing off. I haven't faced off in years. The team we were playing against was extremely good at faceoffs. Dang. Our team captain suggested that I just slam my opponent as soon as the whistle blows, drive him off the ball, and try to turn around and pick it up. I figured that was a better plan than I brought with me, so I tried it....and it worked! Not foolproof, mind you, but I managed to frustrate the other guys just a bit, and even won some of those faceoffs for my team. Yay!
I have not become the team's official faceoff guy as a result. I'm not the official anything, really. To be honest, I'm just thrilled to be able to get out there and play the game in any capacity that I'm able. I love hauling my butt across the field, chasing and being chased, dodging between defenders as I try desperately to fight my way through to pass or shoot, and yes, knocking someone off their feet when I get the chance. I love it, and I'm going to keep playing as long as they'll let me.
Recently, I attended a party immediately following one of my games, and a younger brother-in-law heard me mention that I had just played that day. He asked how it went, and I responded with some colorful stories from the game, gleefully describing the hits, the running, the whole bit.
"How old are you, Whit?" he asked.
"Huh? I'm 38." I didn't see the relevance of the question at the time.
"Wow...still playing lacrosse at 38." He shook his head in disbelief that an old fogey like me could still play a contact sport.
My thought on the matter is this...all my body parts are working. No, I'm not 20 anymore. In fact, I'll never be 20 again, or 25, or even 30. But I can still run, walk, stagger, and crawl. I can still make use of this body of mine, and I plan to do so until I can't anymore. And the amazing thing about the human body is that it generally adapts to your activity level.
A word about my Dad...he's almost 80. Years ago, two of my uncles decided to challenge him to a tennis match (He had a tendency to beat them at tennis, bowling, and golf), and he happily accepted. They had a plan, though...they would tag-team him. One brother would play him for awhile and tire him out, then the other brother would step in and finish him off. It seemed like a great idea.
My Dad has never been the prettiest athlete. He's tall, and kind of gangly in motion. When my uncle hit the ball to Dad's far side, he just barely made it over there to return it...but he did. My uncle ran my Dad all over the court, but Dad somehow made it each time.
Uncle #1 started to get tired. He played as long as he could before calling in Uncle #2, and finally dragged off to the shade to rest. Dad stood there, dripping sweat...and ready. I can still hear his raspy, twangy voice saying, "Well, get on with it!" Uncle #2 had a wide smile as he got ready to serve...which disappeared when the ball came flying back to his far side, unreachable.
"Hey, I thought you were supposed to tire Willie out?!" he called back to his brother in the shade.
A feeble voice came from the lawn chair in the shade. "I did the best I could!"
And I remember my Dad laughing, happy to feel the joy in being active, the sun on his skin, the breeze in his face, happy to be playing a game just for the fun of it...and getting a kick out of beating my uncles.
Back then, my uncles were 30 years old, or so.
My Dad was 50 at the time.
So at 38, I've still got a lot of years of playing ahead of me. Heck, I'm just a kid, by my Dad's standards. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some wind sprints to run. And thanks, Dad...for setting a great example.
William W. McClendon Jr.
Or as I know him, "Dad."
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