Each of us, at a point in our lives, think about its end. The thought arrives without warning, usually as an after effect of an event that may not appear to be significant at that particular time. You witness an accident on your way to office, the images play over and over in your head through the day, you wonder what the family of the victims will feel, and you wonder what would happen if you were involved in a similar situation yourself. You hear of a team members problems in the family, and you thank the powers that be for not having to relate the story yourself.
And then there are less morbid situations, where you watch yourself on a video recording. This is what I'm going to talk about - less morbid, but amazingly almost as depressing. I'm 36 now, and for some time, not many people have commented on how young I look. They used to, you see, and now that they don't, I have started wondering if that is because I don't anymore. You notice the signs of course - the panting after a couple of fast-er steps, the near collapse after an attempt to jog a 100 mtrs, the funny aches and pains you have absolutely no clue of origin of or reason for, but just complain of in the morning.
But there's nothing that destroys every pretense of fitness and youth than watching yourself performing an activity of the sporting persuasion. Till then, the prevailing thought is that you're not doing bad for someone your age. When you see the video, you realise, you know what you are as bad as your age demands.
Last week I sprained my ankle in one of our weekend football games. Now this is nothing less in importance than a battlefield injury, so I was quite pleased about it. I almost glowed as I showed off the still-swelling foot. Quite a take-home article too, and if the family members needed proof that I actually did more than just drive the car out every Saturday morning in my shorts and other sporty wear, nothing put that doubt to rest than a limp and a bruise or two. The regret at not being able to play for a couple of weeks is relatively less active in my mind as I milk reactions from onlookers about my well-strapped ankle, and the fact that I now wear sandals to work.
To get back to the moot point of this passage, the first sign of trouble in paradise came when my doctor looked at the ankle, then asked 'what the dickens were you doing playing football at your age?'. Not in those exact words, but if tone could be translated into language, that was exactly what he said. I mumbled something to the effect that I was not that old, but in my mind the doubts had found a voice. Was this a call to end all association with the physical side of the game? Did this question from the doc give credibility to what most of my family felt but rarely said? Cos I really loved that hour or two on Saturday when we played our country version of football, revelled in the thought that at least in this restricted group of company colleagues, I could hold up my own. Sure, I could not run for very long, or very far, I had little or no skill in dribbling, and the only way I would head the ball was if the ball hit the head on its way elsewhere. But I had a mean passing sense, and shots off my boots could make the ball travel a fair distance, generally in the direction I and meant it to go. Surely I can continue to do that for a while? The never-say-stop part of the brain told me, as it had on several occasions on this very subject, that I could. Then came the merciless video.
The video was a recording of one of our inter-company matches, one that I took special pride in as the first that we actually took something away from. The match was a draw, 3-3, and I thought our team dominated large portions of the game. If I was disappointed, it was with the feeling that we should have won the game. So when a team mate circulated the video file, I was quite eager to see how it went. A few minutes into the viewing though, the merciless part hit me - pretty hard. The game itself was quite scrappy, as you might expect. School-boyish was how one of my team mates called it, and I might have agreed, had I found the need to defame and belittle school football. But I did not have any delusions about how good or bad we played. Despite this, watching the 22 of us fluttering over the field was a revelation. Most of our endeavours involved flapping every available limb frantically to get to the ball and then hovering over it in a ponderous fashion, trying to foil the interest of the opponent, thinking about the next move, while the said interested opponent calmly footed the ball away.
All this, though an eye-opener, did not nearly have the same effect as watching self in action. Self was, thankfully, worth very little screen time as the I did not have too much of an interaction with the ball that day. But in whatever I saw, I was not pleased. A more lenient critic may in his generosity feel that with very little to observe, not much could be judged about the quality and skill on display. Unfortunately for someone whose self image was a lot different, this was a revelation of catastrophic proportion. It would seem to my seemingly biased eyes that I barely moved during the few minutes the ball appeared in my vicinity. And when the movement did happen, it was ungainly and frankly quite embarrassing. I discovered aspects of my game I never knew existed, and none of them was flattering. For one, I was far too lardy in the middle. The over sized jersey only made things worse. That everything else was thin was of no consolation at all. If I had to be drawn as a stick figure, there would be a circle in the middle. At some level, I knew this, but now I could no longer hide behind the phrase "A photograph puts pounds on you" any more.
There were other curious aspects as well. I discovered that I ran around with a shuffling gait, hands firmlt and at all times aimed at the ground, heels barely leaving the surface. I might have done a better job if I had walked around the pitch, for all the ground I was making. I actually had to run the movie a couple of times to check if the damn thing had been set for slow motion. It wasn't, to my great and absolute horror.
And it is thus with great humility and mortified humility at that, that I now consider removing myself from the roster of the still-playing-football bravehearts. There is at least one doctor I know that will smile knowingly at that announcement, should it ever be made.
