I had defended the play hundreds of times before as a center back in our over-30 soccer league.
But this time, when the opposing striker sped toward our goal with the ball and I sprinted toward him for a challenge, I felt something pop in my right hamstring and pulled up, limping.
He blew past me, the last defender back, and easily scored. I crumpled to my knees and bellowed a loud f-bomb to the heavens, ticked off not just because I enabled the go-ahead goal, but because my body had failed me. Again.
“It sucks getting old,” I huffed as I limped to the sideline, feeling sorry for myself.
There, my friend Anthony, who at 60 had a couple of years on me, shook his head.
“We are not old,” Anthony said. “We’re legends.”
We laughed at the archness of our middling play—on a good day—being described as legendary. Nevertheless, from that day forward we’ve called each other “Legend.”
But the thing about legends is, sometimes they don’t know when it’s time to call it a career. Even a recreational soccer career.
For nearly two decades, I’ve played in this over-30, co-ed soccer league. The talent ranges from a couple of guys who played in low-level professional leagues to a handful of late-in-life adopters. Most have played at least at the high school level, which means everybody has one move—and most of us have played together so long that we all know what that move is and how to defend it.
The vibe is competitive, but fun. Players on both teams will playfully bust on someone for missing an easy goal or for flailing at attempting something they haven’t tried in years, like a bicycle kick. There’s no slide-tackling in the league, but I have regularly sported bruises delivered by opposing elbows or knees.
‘I sat out a couple of months, let it heal and have played for years on it without incident.’
We talk about our kids or partners or the latest international tournaments while we’re resting on the sidelines. We go hard for 90 minutes, then shake hands and exchange sweaty hugs after the match and sometimes grab a beer on the way home. It all makes those Saturdays I spend on the pitch, whether it’s pouring rain or blistering heat, my most blissful hours of the week.
But lately, that vibe has soured. And if I’m being real about it, some of it has to do with my age. Or at least my aging body.
I started playing in the league when I was closer to 30. Now I’m nearly twice the age of my youngest teammates and competitors, and more often than not it feels like it.
This last season was the most frustrating I’ve experienced. I kept popping hamstrings at inopportune times and my right knee would sometimes ache late in the game … and into the following Tuesday. A couple of times I pulled myself off the field because I literally couldn’t do much more than hop on one leg.
Except for the match where we had no subs. Then I stayed in. And that did not go well.
The attitude toward injuries in our league is a mixed bag. Overall, folks are very sympathetic. If you’re hurt, take a seat. This is a fun, rec league. Come back when you’re well. Just about everybody has nursed some sort of injury. Every other set of knees in the league has a post-ACL surgery scar on it—except for my buddy Ines, who refused surgery for his torn knee ligament a few years back and “rested it out.” He returned three months later, unscarred, and as fast as before.
Based on what “Dr. Ines” and other players advised, I didn’t have the torn meniscus in my left knee surgically repaired when it happened about eight years ago. Instead, I sat out a couple of months, let it heal and have played for years on it without incident.
But on the cusp of 60, that sort of miracle recovery doesn’t happen much anymore.
I stretch every day and regularly do some light juggling and sprints on a grass elementary school field near my home. I get to the field 30 minutes early and try a slow warm-up before the game.
But still, several games ended prematurely last season with this “sound” emanating from my hammies:
Pop!
Then I would trudge over to the sideline purgatory and hope for some Lazarausian recovery. It rarely came. I’d cheer on my teammates but deep down I was pissed. Unlike some of the handful of other players of my vintage in the league, I don’t get a lot of thrills from comparing ailments.
“Joe, is the knee bugging you again?”
“Nah, it’s the hamstring again.”
“Sorry, man. My ankle is shot. Plus, my bunions are killing me.”
Spare me.
There is nothing more frustrating—or frankly, boring—than watching a rec sports game in which you’re not participating. Especially when your body fails you. Feeling that way at 59 brings its own set of emotional baggage. I envision the younger players who don’t know or remember me seeing me iced up on the sidelines and thinking, “Who’s the old guy that’s always hurt?”
So what to do?
Years ago, I suggested to a younger friend who was one of the league’s board members that there be an official ombudsman whose job it would be to kick out underperforming members of the league. Someone to tap a player on the shoulder and say, “Jim, you’ve had some great years in the league. It’s been great playing with you. But now it’s time to move onto pickleball.” Hahahaha, we laughed.
Now it felt like I should be the one getting tapped on the shoulder. But I’m not ready to play pickleball yet. So I made a plan.
I’m going to sit out this upcoming season, but return to play when I turn 60, even if it’s only for a reduced number of minutes every game. That’s OK. I don’t have to run for 90 minutes anymore. I miss those blissful hours every week too much to let my pride stand in the way of getting back on the pitch, even for a few minutes. I want to go out on my own terms.
Gracefully.
Because that’s what legends do.
Joe Garofoli is the senior political writer at the San Francisco Chronicle. He lives in the East Bay.
Photo credit: Shutterstock/sheppardpk
