Sunday marks another trip around the sun for me. That will be 68 of ‘em. One more than 67 (!), kids. Feel free to gazz out to your heart’s content.
Anyway …
Just for the sheer terror of it, I decided to look up the life expectancy for males in our great nation. And according to the Centers for Disease Control – or at least what’s left of it – that number is 75.8.
Quite sobering. I mean, we’re down to single digits, kids, and I have no timeouts left. Also, I’m gonna say someone like Jerry Tagge is running the two-minute drill.
On the bright side I only have a few years left to yell at my TV each Sunday in the fall, when the Green Bay Packers again prove themselves to be either the NFL’s Best Bad Team or Worst Good Team. I feel certain I will go to my reward following another botched onside kick on their part. A heart can only take so much.
Until then, I will continue to take stock. You reach this age – I mean, what happened to 40 or 50 or even 60? – and you’re kinda forced to do so. Just the other day, a co-worker mentioned that her dad turned 70 this year, and had slowed down to the point where she wasn’t sure he could take her kids fishing.
That too gave me pause, given that I’m closing in on that milestone. But then again, he was a fireman, which certainly takes a far greater toll on a body than sportwriterin’. The heaviest thing I’ve had to carry in the last 40-some years was one of those old Radio Shack TRS-80s. Arduous as that might have been, I feel OK. I see what’s staring back at me in the mirror, but I feel fortunate to have my health. And I don’t ever take that for granted.
Beyond that, I can’t say I feel optimistic, given the daily toll humankind is taking on the environment or the endless idiocy in Washington, D.C. But I can say I feel grateful.
Grateful for family. For my sister Carol, who is a minister. Should she shuffle off this mortal coil before I do, I can only hope she puts in a good word for me with the Big Guy. (“Those F-bombs in the fourth quarter of that game against the Bears on Dec. 20, 2025? C’mon – there’s gotta be special dispensation for cases like that.”)
I’m also grateful for my wife Barbara, with whom I will celebrate 40 years of wedded bliss in July 2026. She is as kind and compassionate a person as you will ever meet, someone who remembers all her friends’ birthdays, helps them out in a pinch and even mediates parking-lot disputes at Walmarts (true story).
That said, she had a two-word response when I lamented not reaching some of my career goals upon retirement a few years back. And yes, the first of those words did in fact begin with the letter “F.” It was followed by the word “you.” She went on to point out that I had interviewed scores of interesting people and covered dozens of memorable events. No, I had not had a byline in Sports Illustrated, which was the dream of everyone of my generation. But neither had my career been anything to sneeze at, she argued.
Hey, it wasn’t a Kurt Russell-as-Herb Brooks pep talk, but it was pretty good.
(Also, 40 years married to me? Talk about being deserving of special dispensation at the Next Level.)
I’m grateful for my son Ryan, who was also bitten by the writer bug years ago, meaning he was infected by all the accompanying neuroses as well. (Another true story: When he was looking at colleges way back when, we visited Susquehanna University, which has its own writers’ house. The place has gotta have rubber walls, no?)
Thankfully he has a real job, one that involves web design and internal communications and such, so he doesn’t have to depend on some failing media outlet for a paycheck. But he writes fiction on the side, and is really good at it. I can’t say I always understand all the characters and worlds he creates, but it reads well. So h/t to him.
And finally, I’m grateful for the jobs in which I continue to dabble. Grateful that there are still places that post my words online, and grateful for the endeavor I undertook a few years back as a bailiff at Lancaster County courthouse. Gotta admit – I expected there to be a lock-’em-up-and-throw-away-the-key vibe, but the reality is far different.
I have seen fair-minded judges. I have seen juries that fully understand the gravity of the situation in which they find themselves. And I have seen professionals on all sides of the law who are competent and passionate.
Yes, I’ve witnessed great sadness. Yes, I have seen the aftermath of tragedy. But on balance it has been an eye-opening and even uplifting experience. (Plus you get to say, “All rise,” and everybody stands up. WHAT? I have resisted the urge to imitate the bailiff in “A Few Good Men,” but might trot that out at some point.)
So there’s much to celebrate. And I will try to make the most of the 7.8 or so years I have left, knowing full well that in the fall of 2033, some guy who is currently in middle school is destined to flub an onside kick for the Green Bay Packers.
And after that, all bets are off.