The dream is dead

This weekend I came to a realization. A realization that I think my subconscious did not want to… ummm… realize. (AUTHOR’S NOTE: wow, I realized a realization? Aren’t I something special?) I realized that even if I got myself into my peak performance condition, increased my footwork skills, and brought my tactical knowledge up to snuff, I would still be too old to play the game of soccer professionally. The dream is really dead. Now, I know full well that even at the height of my abilities I was not good enough or even on the track to be even remotely professional level, and I understand that I have never been in the physical shape necessary to even seriously think about playing, but I was at least young enough that if I did have the talent and the physical abilities it could be a possibility. Not so now. I am just plain too old.

Looking at most professional sports, my mere 32 years of age puts me over the average age of the professional athlete. Don’t get me wrong, there are still some people who play well into their mid-30’s, but these people are the exception to the rule. Most pro careers tend to end after the tender age of 26, it seems. Superstars typically last until the ripe old age of 31 to 33. Well, dear readers, I am 32 and even if I were at the pinnacle of performance for all of my 32 years, I probably would not be able to hang with the 22 year olds “knocking the ball around the pitch” these days.

This saddens me somewhat. I am officially too old for the dream. The fantasy doesn’t even have a glimmer of possibility anymore. Woe is me! Woe is me! For I am too old to be “Man of the Match” even in my dreams. My fantasy will now consist of the guy in the stands who deftly and quickly returns the ball to the pitch so the home team can restart play and maintain the fast break advantage. Ooooooh, doesn’t that sound like a great sports fantasy? Yeah, it does suck. Maybe I will be the one who purchases the ticket that pushes the team’s profits high enough that they can afford the next superstar. It is to dream. Or maybe I am the old guy in the stands that shouts, “For Chrissake! Shoot the Damn Ball!” at just the correct volume and pitch that the striker thinks it is his own internal monologue causing him to shoot a wicked ball into the upper right hand corner just past the outstretched keeper’s fingers. Now that is a sport’s fantasy.

Maybe I will just have to start fantasizing vicariously through Little Man. I am sure he is going to be the next asthmatic 16 year old phenom who is going to be snatched up by the… let’s say Tottenham Hotspurs youth developmental system. Because, really, that is what Tottenham really needs; a 16 year old Yankee asthmatic with some severe food allergies. His nickname could be “The Yankee Wheeze.”

To recap
The Yankee Wheeze is doing much better today
I think we are having some sort of soup for dinner tonight
I will only be working a half day tomorrow
I just got out of a 5 hour long “webinar” meeting
I was really close to clawing my eyes out during the “webinar”
Capt. McArmypants is deploying for Middle Eastern desert duty sometime next year
Both he and I wish he were deploying for Middle Eastern dessert duty
At least I haven't gotten too old to save the world from blood-thirsty aliens in my fantasies
Tomorrow’s 20 questions is a continuation of the cereal questions
People are oddly interested in breakfast cereal