The Unsung Glory of Middle Age Sports

I'm a serious runner. Been doing it since The Girl was born, took break when the boy came along, and since then, I've been running about 30 miles a week. But I'm also a complete weather wuss who won't run outside when the temperature drops below 40 and yet hates running on a treadmill. This leaves the track above the gymnasium at my local JCC as my only option. Only issue is that the track is 1/18th of mile. I run 8-10 miles per run... you do the math. It's about as close as I've ever come to understanding what a hamster must feel like.

So the other day my iPod had a bad shuffle (I think it got recently dumped, it was all quasi-alternative emo The OC kind of soundtracky stuff, big fat downer), but luckily, there was a pick-up game basketball game of middle-aged men in the lower gym. Now, even better would have been a pick up game of hot young male off-duty strippers, but you take what you get.

So I'm watching the guys, and finally a decent song kicks in. (I define a decent running song as anything with a driving hip-hop or techno beat, with lyrics that generally contain boasting and copious swearing). Thanks to my trusty Nike+ sensor, and the music, I blast out my next mile in 7:44, and am feeling pretty good about myself.

At that moment one of the guys (we'll call him Sheldon) catches my eye. I'm not sure if it was the t-shirt (Red Bull logo, completely soaked with sweat) his head (baldly glistening in the harsh gym lights) or his hair (that was primarily located on his back and bristling out from under the aforementioned t-shirt) that did it. But I'm watching him, and some other guy passes him the ball. The guy guarding him hustles up and gets all up in Sheldon's grill, and Shel kind of stumbles, fades away, and tosses the ball in a hope-for-the-heavens hook over his shoulder. And wouldn't you know? SWISH.

I think he got an ass-pat or two from his buddies for his prowess. But what really struck me was the momentary look of pure joy on his face. For that one shot, Sheldon wasn't thinking about the mis-labeled transactions he had to organize on his spreadsheet back at the office. He was thinking, 'Damn...I'm Michael Jordan.' And at the same time, I was thinking, 'maybe I'm not too old to run the marathon.'

So...not to get too "real men of genius" on you all, but to Sheldon: Master of the Misintentioned Basket: I salute you.