"Running Away" At Age Six

I am 62 years old and have lived my whole life in Columbus, Oho. For the first seven years I lived with my mom and dad, and eventually a total of three sisters, at 934 Weber Road, located on the city's north side. The family moved into a better neighborhood in 1958. Yesterday I traveled back to that Weber Road area to meet my sister, G.G., and together take a walk through very early nostalgia.

I have a pretty good memory for meaningless stuff. I remember little fragments and tidbits going back to my fairly early childhood. I can recollect the names of the neighborhood kids. Looking at the old house from the outside, I pointed out the individual windows, and recalled the corresponding rooms in some detail.

I remembered that one day I decided that I wanted to run away. I don't know what my motive was. I do not think I was angry over something, something like being denied an extra cookie. My guess is that I saw a hobo on some TV show, the life looked interesting, and I decided to make it my career path. For some reason my younger sister, Dottie, wanted to go with me.

Anyway, I informed my mother that I wanted to run away and she calmly asked me if I might need a lunch. I told her that yes, I could get hungry in my travels, and food might come in handy. So my mother took a couple of apples out of the refrigerator, two small bags of potato chips out of the cupboard, and made us some sandwiches. As per the style of a vagabond circa 1956, we wrapped the food in a handkerchief, and tied the handkerchief to the end of a stick, a stick that could be carried over a shoulder.

We exited the back door and began our excursion by meandering down the alley that ran near the property. We traveled about a hundred yards or so when off to the side we came across a couple of idle cement blocks, perfect height for a 3'4" person to sit restfully. My sister and I took comfort on the seating and after a moment or two of relaxation, decided it was time for lunch. As was my habit at the time, I quickly consumed the potato chips, ate the sandwich minus the crust, and threw the apple into a nearby trash can.

After lunch, Dottie and I continued to lounge on the concrete blocks for a while, but eventually we concluded that we had run away long enough and it was time to return home, so that is what we did, retracing the short route we had trekked some 45 minutes earlier.

When we stepped through the back door, our journey complete, my mother showed very little surprise in our somewhat abrupt return. In fact, it seemed almost as though she expected it. 
       

It Was a Great Run

 

I am pretty sure I have played my last game of full court basketball. My long if not illustrious career ended on Saturday. By my calculations I played until I was 62.5 years old, plus one day. I consider my “adult” basketball career to have begun in mid-January of 1970. Somewhere around then I played an intramural game at The Ohio State University, complete with referees and game clock. I was not a student at the time, and neither was anyone else on the team except for one player. We had all gone to high school together, graduating about six months earlier. Of course I had played basketball long before then, I just consider that my first “official” adult game.

Over the many years, I have played in many organized, league games, and in perhaps hundreds of casual games played among friends on outdoor courts, and in one rented gym or another. I have seen a lot of players come and go, more than I can count.

For the last decade or so I have been playing year-round on Saturday morning with a bunch of older guys, though only one is older than me. I would say that the average age is something like 50. In recent years I have wondered what would be the circumstances that would make me quit playing the game. I figured there were three basic possibilities. #1; I would suffer a catastrophic injury or illness. I might blow-out a knee or have a heart attack. #2; I simply would not have a place to play. For example; the guys I am playing with would decide that enough is enough, and quit playing. Or maybe the gym where we play would burn down. #3; someone would brazenly declare that my quality of play is such that I am no longer worthy of participation. Ironically, I had considered the possibility that I might be the person making that declaration.

Anyway, what transpired was #3. In essence I was yelled at by one of my fellow players, and at the time a teammate, to get out of the way and let the better players play the game. This came immediately after a teammate threw me a pass and a fellow teammate, deeming I was not worthy of the ball, tried to intercept the pass. When he failed to steal the pass, this pass intended for me, a fellow teammate, and instead tipped the ball out of bounds, he then turned and angrily barked at me to step aside and quit trying to be a part of the offense. I was shocked by his shouted proclamation and immediate became irate. Fortunately it was near the end of our two hour playing time, so there was no time for anything to escalate.

I am no longer angry and over the last few days I have given the episode, and other factors, some thought and consideration. My conclusion is that it is time for me to hang-up the sneakers. However, I did not have a heart attack, nor did I blow-out a knee. So if I can find a place to play where all the guys are willing to put up with the limitations of an average (although relatively physically fit) 62 year-old athlete, then I might lace them up again. Unfortunately, modestly talented, 62 year-old basketball players are not in great demand.

I am very fortunate, it was a great run.