They think it's all over and it is

By way of continuing a theme, or rather, a lament, why is it that when one becomes an Old, one retains one's upper body strength but loses any semblance of suppleness and speed?

A trip to Newlyn gym this afternoon yielded a warm glow after I did eight rounds on the heavy bag without breaking a sweat. That's not true, I was drenched in sweat, people stared at me afterwards and I was shunned and avoided on the streets and in Tesco and in my car. But that aside, and it is an aside, the point is this: I wasn't tired. I felt fine. I could have done a few more rounds. No sweat, or lots of sweat, it's all the same, I was almost not Old. I could kid myself I was Young.

But football is a different kettle of fish. Perhaps it's also a different ball game. As is surfing, but it is not a kettle of fish, of any kind, different or the same. These two pursuits produce more by way of despair than elation for the unarguable fact that I am old and slow and knackered. Old old old. Slow slow slow. Sweaty sweaty sweaty. My legs have gone, I don't know where or why, they won't come back, they think it's all over and it is. 

Comments

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Alex

I seem to remember our last correspondence ended with an agreement from you that footballing was now going to be a thing that only other people did from now on? The fallacious urge to put foot to leather when you are closing in on a half century even though there are so few examples that it is a good idea to do so mystifies me.Tow surfing the Cribber is a far safer proposition than a Sunday kick around. I await your rationalisation of your continued strange behaviour with anticipation and incredulity in equal measure.

Best Wishes etc

Ben