Age is catching me up. I stepped on the basketball court today and after a shaky start with some shots rattling in and out, I was getting a good rhythm down. The shots were falling, I was anticipating, and I wasn't getting burnt on defense. Then it happened. I stepped out to defend and when I planted my foot a spasm went straight across my back just above my hips. I crumpled over and removed myself from the game. Unlike the ankles, where you just lace them tighter and get back in the game, the back can't be tricked. I spent the rest of the day, and will probably spend the next few days, half hunched over and shuffling around like a Watergate Safeway patron.
I am reaching the sad conclusion that I will now have to add to my stretching regimen before playing. Age has forced me to accept several changes: ankle braces, leg stretching, developing my opposite hand, and now back stretching. It's at these times, when activities that we've enjoyed or practiced much of our lives become denaturalized through infirmity, that we often reflect on our impending mortality. A few years more on the court if a) my ankles hold out, b) my knees hold out, and now c) my back holds out. After that I might have to become that old guy who sits on the perimeter and takes set shots when his teammates remember he's there.
The best part about hurting your back is that everything hurts. You can't bend or reach or walk or stand up without little waves of pain slashing across your back. And cruel co-workers laugh at you.
It might be time to switch sports. I understand you can play tennis until you're dead, but I think that's only if your back isn't already twisted like a slinky.
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