A Life Too Ordinary?

A psychologist would probably tell me it's my age. Mid life crisis or something like that. Last night I had a cold chill run down my spine as I looked ahead into old age. Before I describe how and why this happened, I need to rewind a little.

I started playing cricket at about 9. As I grew up, got taller and stronger, I became a useful-ish fast bowler for middling-to-poor club sides in Somerset. I could bat a little too, when luck was on my side. I enjoyed playing, knowing that I was playing at the top of the range that my talent, such as it was, would allow. For various reasons - girls, work etc., I stopped playing at about 22. At some stages I'd been playing four or five games a week. I'd grown tired of the commitment and wanted to be able to spend my weekends how I wished.

My awareness of my increasing age - and waistline - encouraged me to have a comeback at the age of 37. I was keen to play again, even though I knew I wasn't fit. I suffered through the pulled hamstrings and backache and completed a season for my local village side. I still had all my old kit, even the broken bat that my father had given me for my 16th birthday. It was no use, but I kept it regardless. It dawned on me one day that not only had the famous West Indian bowler whose name endorsed my boots died some years previously, but the boots themselves were literally older than several of my team mates.

Here I must digress to a little anecdote that amused me greatly at the time. If you go to B&Q (other DIY stores are available) and buy a packet of screws, the label will say on it "average contents - 50" and you think "well, that's reasonable. The packets are machine fed, so maybe there are a few packets with 49 screws, and a few with 51. No big deal." Anyway, so I went to replace my aged boots, and bought a sparkling pair of new Puma boots from the sports shop in town. As I got them home, and opened the box, I saw this printed on it;

"Average contents; 2"

My mind was filled with visions of people opening the box to find, to their astonishment, an inexplicable third boot, whilst elsewhere some poor unfortunate was having to hobble out to bat with only one boot on.

The contrast in age was also apparent one day when I was batting with one of these younger lads. He was cross that I had refused a sharp run from his batting. "Come on Martin," he said, "there was a run there!"

"Not at my age there wasn't...." came the reply.

Anyway. After that first season, I realised that I was no longer able to play at the levels that I had set for myself in my teens. They say that it's common for a professional's eyes to have "gone" around the 38-40 mark. Maybe this was why my batting had gone to pot, and my reactions slowed noticeably. Regardless of the reason, I decided that I would be unable to invest the time in order to bring myself back up to my own standards, and rather than frustrate myself every weekend, I would stop playing altogether. I sold all my equipment on eBay and I've never looked back or been back to watch the team play.

The reason for all this rambling is that last night I was watching "24 Hours in A&E" on Channel 4. They had a chap called Frank who was in hospital having fallen at home and not been able to get up. In transpired that Frank was 90. I was shocked. I said to my wife that he looked at least 15-20 years younger and what  remarkable shape he was in for a man of his age.

Then the chill set in. I've often felt that I hope to die before becoming an encumbrance on my wife or my children. However for some reason, whilst watching Frank this feeling was palpable. The thought occurred to me "what happens if - at whatever age it occurs - I get that feeling of frustration that I can no longer do the things that I want to be able to do? That feeling that caused me to abandon playing cricket because I could no longer emulate my teenage self? What if I'm not as able as Frank?"

It was a sobering moment, and even more than twelve hours afterwards, while I write this, it's emotional. How do you adjust to these things?

Maybe what made it worse was that Frank was still full of life and character at 90. He has more of that than I do now, at 40. Frank used to run a circus and had a colourful life that the hospital staff queued up to ask him about.

Me? I wrote some dodgy software. What I wouldn't give to feel at 40 the way Frank feels at 90.