A few months back I received a text message from a buddy of mine.
“We’re down a guy. Can you fill in tonight?”
I had to think it over. There was a better than average chance my body would be mostly immobile the following day; a realization I found both humbling but mostly troubling.
About a year before packing up for The Big Apple, the sleepless metropolis where I’d hang my hat for the next 12 years, I got a few friends together and started a team in an “old man softball league.”
We were by far the youngest group of guys in the division. In fact, at that point most of us had only been on the planet for a shade over two decades.
We were a mixed bag, which made it all the more fun. Some wore their hair long, while others kept their personal lives close to the vest.
A handful of the guys seemed to already have their lives mapped out, while others drifted aimlessly, testing both time and the patience of their parents.
But every Wednesday evening all was right with the world. We’d come from various corners of the Bay Area and hike up that small hill that led to Owen Jones Field, a park nestled in the Oakland Hills where many of us spent our summers growing up.
Nothing had really changed. The infield was always devoid of love, the grass in the outfield grew wild, and I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the last time the water fountain worked.
But all things considered it was holding up okay.
“I’ll be there,” I finally texted back.
That evening I grabbed a tattered shirt and an old pair of cleats, still caked in dirt from my last outing, and threw them in the trunk of my car. I made my way to the field guided by the bright lights in outfield.
I stretched and sprinted amidst bro hugs and life summaries of old friends. Some of the players had changed but a surprising number had clung hard to what was now their only refuge from progressively busier lives.
A few looked a little more wearied than I remembered, and invariably boasted less hair and a tad more waist.
Others had taken their last at-bat years ago to tend to their own growing teams of children and better halves.
It was not lost on me that the moniker “old man softball team,” was now not so ironic.
Time I realized, is nature’s most trusted mercenary; a ninja that sneaks up and takes hold without you noticing.
And sometimes its grip is felt most in something as trivial as a softball game.
That night towards the end of the 6th inning, I rounded second base trying to stretch a double into a triple. I could hear the guys in the dugout pleading for me to hold at second, but I’d made up my mind the moment I hit the ball.
I dove head first into third narrowly missing the tag. The crowd, which is to say, the 7 or so in attendance went wild. Even the third baseman tipped his cap.
We ended up losing that game but in some perverse way, I’d won my own battle of the spirit.
The next day was different. I felt as if I’d been hit my a freight train. My legs were sore, my chest bruised, and my pride in tatters.
What was I thinking? I thought to myself.
But that lesson, however painful, ended up being a teachable moment perhaps only some makeshift “field of dreams,” could offer.
I realized change is inevitable. Sooner or later everything alters. Our bodies tell us what it can no longer do, new neighbors move in, children grow up, and even our values change.
Ten years ago I’d have been happy thumbing through plays the rest of my life. Today, I’m just as likely to reach for biography on Mandela as I am of Brando.
And I’m fine with my evolution. However painful it might have been at times, it was necessary.
What’s more, I realized adaptability is a choice because while change is inevitable, progress is not.
The key to forward mobility, of both mind and body, is to confront the difficult questions:
— Am I looking for solutions to modern day challenges?
— Am I staying open to new possibilities, or am I holding on to a method that is now obsolete?
— Am I embracing my own frailties and incompetencies, while productively employing my strengths?
Having grit, passion, and a strong work ethic is a necessity for any endeavor worth achieving. But it doesn’t mean a little personal inventory on our strengths, philosophies, and values from time to time will hurt.
Getting to that place required a heightened sense of humility, radical self-honesty, and teaching myself to view the future as an opportunity rather than a threat to what once was.
Before long, the rains will clear, the grass will be cut, and I’ll likely be getting another one of those text messages requesting my services in left field. And for better or worse, I’ll accept.
But the next time, I’ll think twice before rounding second.
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