One individual sticks clearly out in my mind. How could he not? He chats in my ear, and into the ears of my teammates, at a breathtaking rate. Topics of conversation vary from how fired up he’s getting, to empty
One individual sticks clearly out in my mind. How could he not? He chats in my
ear, and into the ears of my teammates, at a breathtaking rate. Topics of
conversation vary from how fired up he’s getting, to empty challenges of
physical strength.
The point being, if he’s on the court, he’s probably
running his mouth.
What’s more, after the contest finishes, the guy shakes
hands with all of the competitors, smiling accordingly, and acknowledging that
this is, after all, not quite life and death, though close.
Welcome to
recreational sports: The last bastion of activity for the physically-inclined
adult.
Oh, sure, games of recreation are played by tots and teens, alike,
but those participants have years ahead of them. They may go on to play at the
high school level, or perhaps even collegiatley.
But for those of us who
have already watched those days of validated activity pass by the wayside, rec.
leagues, community sports, or whatever it might be called, are places where
those still in shape, or those showing a bit of the barley and hops, can
contend as if titles are on the line every night.
And many involved do.
Though relatively new to the island, I’ve had the good fortune of competing in
two County Men’s Basketball leagues. In my last place of residence, it was
basketball, volleyball and softball.
So, I’ve seen a lot of recreational
sport, and only a few times can I remember hearing the line, “It’s only a
game.”
On the contrary, rec. leagues set the stage for community bragging
rights, provide considerably in the area of exercise and seem necessarily
cathartic. Without after-work athletics available, perhaps those who play would
be starved for an aggressive outlet.
But instead, a man — or woman — can
hit the playing field, talk a little trash, push somebody around while fighting
for a rebound, spike a volleyball, make a diving catch at shortstop or
generally experience the exfoliating of emotion. There’s plenty of yelling at
the umpire or staring down of the referee. Technicals are drawn and first
basemen are booted from the game. At times it can be picture-perfect
chaos.
But better that those emotions, and general thoughts of narcissism
be handled in the name of sport rather than at home. I fully admit that I’d be
a much harder person with which to deal if I didn’t have these bouts of
physical activity etched into my dayplanner.
That’s quite evident with
others, too. Whether walking into the gym in matching shorts and jersey, or
arriving 45 minutes early to stretch and jog the sidelines, there’s little
doubt these small victories mean much.
Now, while recreational sports
might, at their root, service the outdated, make no mistake. There are some
talented players throwing elbows or trying to get the runner at home plate.
Some participated intercollegiatley, others at the high school level, and
almost all at some point in their lives. Most of these players come equipped
with a sense of pride; they wouldn’t bang for an hour twice a week in the name
of embarrassment.
That’s what makes these leagues the last bastion. They
preserve the game in the minds of their participants. If I score 23 points and
hand out six assists in a recreation league basketball game, I feel as though
my game still is in tact — to some degree. If someone hits for the cycle at a
recreation baseball game, it’s going to stay with him or her forever, live on
in their mind indefinitely. That’s because these leagues are nursing homes for
the athlete who was, or still wants to be. It’s where we go for the coddling of
our younger selves, for the nurturing of skills slightly dwindling.
Can we
dunk like we used to? Can we still get to a well-hit ball in the gap? Do we
rise for a kill with the efficiency once possessed? Probably not. Now we slap
the backboard on a layup, play the ball on a hop and dink where we might have
spiked.
But the love of sport still burns, and thank goodness these
organizations exist where flailing dreams don’t yet have to be cast aside.
And where one can talk trash until he or she is blue in the face.
