Fitness Gamble

There can be no doubt that aging forces us to make decisions regarding fitness. The main questions: get active? stay active? or modify activity? A crystal ball would come in handy. I have remained active my whole life, and I intend to continue. But, in what form? My main competitive sport has been soccer; I have put thousands of miles on my body over thirty-plus years of playing. I’m pretty sure my odometer has rolled over…a few times.

Why, or how a fifty-plus-year-old woman plays soccer is a curiosity to many? Not everyone understands it, and I have been asked a time or two, “YOU play soccer?” To which I respond, if only in my head, “Yeah. Better than you.”

When I began to coach my eleven-year-old son’s soccer team a couple of years ago, he confessed to me on the way to our first practice that he was getting teased at school because his mother agreed to coach. He’s a confident kid, and I had his permission to coach. But he felt pretty nervous going to the first practice. Yohannes had “grown up” on the soccer field with me. I had coached him at ages three, four and five. He watched me coach his sister’s team for several years, and he came to many of my soccer games. I knew he wasn’t worried about my ability, and by the end of the first practice, he stood proudly at my side, because none of the other boys worried about it either. 

A few years ago, I sustained a lower spinal disc injury—bending over to pick up a pair of my ten-year-old daughter’s shoes. They were really heavy! It took months of physiotherapy before I returned to the soccer field. At my monthly massage, my therapist asked me how my back felt. I told her that it felt fine, except when I fell down. 

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“It’s difficult to get up quickly after I fall down," I said. "When I put my hands on the ground by my feet to push myself up, I can’t because my back won’t bend that way anymore. I have to roll to the side to get up, and by then, the opposition has taken the ball.”

She paused thoughtfully; I assumed that she was trying to think of exercises to help me improve my mobility. Instead, it became obvious that she had probably never seen a game of soccer before. She said, “The thing that I don’t understand . . . is . . . Why do a bunch of grown women want to knock each other down?”

I laughed, “We don’t just go around the field pushing each other over. Falling and hitting the ground is part of the game.” (Maybe more for me than others.)

Some people just don’t get the beauty (or point) of physical sport. I’m okay with that. 

As one gets older, it’s a mixed bag. The last tournament I played in nearly killed me. I had to stop on the way home to pick up my daughter Laurèn at a friend’s house. When I arrived, the mom and dad sat at the kitchen table enjoying a glass of wine while the kids jumped on the backyard trampoline. They asked me to join them. I briefly contemplated saying no, because I knew that I could not bend down and take off my shoes. I just wanted to get home and lay down. But, I kicked off my shoes, shuffled over to the table, and lowered myself into a chair with a thunk and a groan. “Are you okay?” they asked. “Yup. I just finished a soccer tournament, I’m a little sore.” 

That was an understatement. What had I been thinking? 

Truthfully . . . I only strained one muscle group. It just happened to be the muscles that allowed me to stand erect, to bend and tie my shoes, to put one leg in front of the other (aka: walk), and to reach my arms out to pick something up, or even wash the dishes. Other than that simple little muscle strain in my back, and the fatigue, dizziness and headaches from exertion, dehydration and electrolyte imbalance, I felt great—quite “fit” actually. I still had it all goin’ on. 

I was forty-five—but on the field, I played much younger (we all do!). Before each game, I coached myself, “play smart, slow down, let the ball do the work”. But truth is, I love the feel of side-by-side sprinting, and gaining an edge over the other player and meeting the ball first. Furthermore, a game with no physical contact would be boring indeed. I don’t seek it, but when it finds me, I am ready to engage, mass-to-mass, sweat upon sweat, legs entangled and then free. I am a competitor. 

During our final two games, we played the same team. They were lithe, fit, and young; we were robust, able-bodied, and mature. If the spectators had been at a horse race placing bets, they would have picked the fountain of youth over the well of experience. They would have lost their money, and incidentally, so would have I. The winning was a testament to our teams’ defensive tenacity. We stuck to them like a teenage boy dancing his first slow dance. Our opposition wasn’t interested in dancing, and they fought to shed us like a cobweb on a nature walk. 

Our goals, to play soccer, have fun, and win—if it was in the cards—were met. The younger, faster team expected to win, and possibly even to teach us a lesson. It wasn’t to be. They left both games congratulating us, and shaking their heads wondering what had just happened. I know their dressing room chatter was not likely reflecting their awe at our prowess. Our dressing room, on the other hand, was celebratory, complete with Jello shooters! 

The differences between them and us may not have been so obvious on the field, appearance aside. But after the game, as they were peeling off their sweaty sports bras and matching briefs, and slipping into lace undergarments and skinny jeans, we were peeling off our protective undergarments and bemoaning the realities of aging, while putting on sandals and sweatpants. We were already icing and applying antiphlogistines (A535) to our muscles and joints, and popping ibuprofen to get ahead of the aches and pains. 

It was after the fourth game in forty-eight hours that the difference in our age became apparent. All of the players had to be 35 or older; but when it comes to sport, each year difference is not additive—it’s more like dog years (seven years for each one—for all you non-dog people). Regardless of how much physical fitness I regularly participated in, I pretty much came out of that tournament, and many soccer games, beaten and depleted. Recovery takes an inordinate amount of time, and bounce-back is inversely related to age. My full time job, taking care of home and family, is hampered, because I don't sleep well, and each game takes me about three days to physically recover from. And the price seemed to be getting higher.

For the past five years, in between indoor and outdoor seasons, I simultaneously think, “I can’t do it anymore” and “I don’t want to quit”. The field has been the only place where I am truly in the moment. As I lace up my cleats, I set aside my problems; as I “get my game face on”, the difficult and painful experience of parenting a child with special needs falls into distant memory. I no longer care who has homework, whose fault it was, or how I am going to make it through this period of my life. I just play the game, to the best of my ability, alongside a team of ageless and delightfully-spirited women.

  Can I really give that up? 

  My main physical priority going forward, is to be able to walk through fields, hills and mountains as long as possible. I am at an age where I wonder what damage my choices of today will have on my joints of tomorrow. For that reason, I quit running years ago, making soccer my only impact sport. But, now, I wonder how it is impacting me. 

I grew up around music. My parents played in a dance band for many of my formative years. In the mid-70’s our house underwent a renovation to include a large music room, complete with gold shag rug covering the floors and the walls. Even though I did not inherit the musical genes of my parents, I do love music, and it often guides and inspires my living. 

In 1978, Kenny Rogers recorded a song written by Don Schlitz called “The Gambler”. I can’t be one-hundred-percent sure that my parent’s band sang it, but how else would a twelve-year-old girl find her way to it?  You know the words, sing along: 

You’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em

Know when to fold ‘em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run.