Grownup at Play
Getting back out onto the field in middle age is better for fitness but also a reminder of childhood joy.
The false spring effect here in Seattle is real: I’ve cleaned all the things, bought planting boxes for the patio, and spent far too much time in garden centers for a February. I also signed up to join a softball league. The last wasn’t entirely a spur of the moment deal triggered by sunny, warmish weather, but that first day of hitting the field for skills training, that solidified my decision to play ball this year.
The hour after skills training ended and sitting on light rail heading home, reminded me that I was not, in fact, a kid at play. My heart betrayed me into thinking as much just a few hours early, urging me to give it my all. As I sat there in silent agony with screaming thigh muscles, I ran through typical my physical exercise routine: rowing, strength training, indoor running drills, daily walks with my dog, and overall just a lot of walking in general. Still not enough to prepare for the ropes I put myself through that day in a single three hour session.
Game days in baseball or softball are always fun as a player. High energy, strong team focus, lots of yelling and cheering, but there’s also a lot of standing around. It’s this last that misleads, much like a false spring. There is a lot of physical activity in short, powerful bursts of adrenaline and strength that takes over your brain, blunting forethought from what you know is coming: The heavy gray rains, the screaming protest of little used muscles.
Steady state running, the kind we think of and often do when hitting the pavement or treadmill for our 30–60 minutes a day is a whole different thing from the dirt-churning sprints of trying to get on base or diving for a pop fly. My groin and quad muscles tell me so, at least. It made me question the futility of regular exercise when a single day of play could leave me aching like I’d jumped into a boot camp after years sprawled on a couch. How is it possible to do all the the workouts and still be unprepared for an afternoon of baseball?
The only thing I can come up with is that my time at play actually brings out a drive to do better, to strive for more, whereas every day exercises are simply a necessary part of life. I don’t hate my workouts — I like the efficiency and routine. But I have no interest in competing with these activities. I don’t feel the need to join up with others where I have to work harder in order to keep up. My home workouts are solitary, meditative in a way, a practiced routine of self-care that ensures mobility and mental acuity into elder-hood. Softball, however, that’s all about the joy of play, and I’m quick to throw myself at it without reserve. Maybe a bit too quick, as my sore back muscles can attest.
Like most people, I’ve heard the advice to “find something you like doing” when it comes to getting physically active. I thought I’d done that with my workout lineup, but I wonder if it wouldn’t be more useful to suggest people find something they’d like to play instead. And while we’re at it, perhaps we should tackle the aversion to play that envelopes everyone over the age of 30.
I get it. Careers, kids, the great take over of adulthood that sucks the energy and time out of us all. At least that’s how we’ve been conditioned to think. Before we even reach adulthood though, we’re given a view of what’s to come through the lens of childhood naivety and a strong desire to please our forebears. By the time we’re teens or young adults, we’ve been given little tastes of adulthood, encouragement at just how mature we’ve become in just a short period. The pressure to grow up comes with an implicit call to let go of childhood as fast as we can, to give up our joy in things that make us seem immature. So we cast aside play.
The irony is that our desire to be grown, independent adults leaves us without the capacity to question why adult “fun” is transformed into eating and drinking sessions instead of an evening running around, playing. Looking up over the second or third glass of wine, beer, or on the really tough days, a finger’s width of the hard stuff, we’re compelled to bury our stress and anxiety in various degrees of intoxication. Few stop after a hard day at work and say, “let’s go shoot hoops or smack a few rounds of tennis.” The perceived energy required is gone already, there’s only enough left to commiserate over food and drink.
Yet, that really isn’t the case. The energy for work out routines is different from the reserves for play. Nothing requires us to play like our lives depend on it — we don’t even need to find the element of competitiveness. All that’s necessary is less than the hours we waste slumped in our seats either bemoaning the realities of adulthood or mindlessly staring at our screens. A few smiles, some laughs, the indignant scoff of having to chase a wayward ball down triggers a sense of aliveness that washes away the feelings of futility that comes with adulthood.
