Hurts So Good: An Old Man’s Guide to Playing with Pain

Yeah, my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play

Leonard Cohen, “Tower of Song”

There isn’t a morning I wake up and don’t hurt. It might be a knee — next day, a shoulder. Maybe my forehead or a shin. Oh no, a hip. I rock like a hobby horse, propelling my feet off the bed onto the floor, then try to remember how I got hurt, not to avoid doing it again but to understand how to deal with it better the next time. See, I caused it not by working but by playing — and enjoying every exquisite, excruciating moment.

Foot and leg pain are constant reminders of how much fun I’m having. When you realize that to live is to suffer, a foot brace feels more like a party hat.

I’m 69 and still play soccer, hockey, basketball, downhill and cross-country ski, run, and generally anything I’ve enjoyed my whole life. Nearly everyone I play with is 20 years younger, more skilled, faster, and stronger. So I must run, jump, kick, stretch, swing, shoot, turn, pivot, fall, and do everything the best I can every time just to look like I belong there.

The reasons I do these things is a mystery not worth pursuing. I still see myself as a Boomer baby on the ADHD spectrum since the 1950s: the inspiration for but not a beneficiary of Ritalin. Every year, I make smaller and smaller steps for a man while losing one more giant leap to the rest of mankind. It takes longer to rejuvenate between competitions, and more…