Perhaps I Should Roll the Bottoms of my Trousers

Has to happen at some time, I guess. For me, the first time was Memorial Day at Bob's house.

It was the kind of day you pray for on the unofficial start of summer - clear and cloudless skies, with the sun pushing the temperature close to 80 degrees. A perfect day for the pool, and Bob has a great one in the backyard of his house, which is located in a suburb a few miles north of Chicago. There would be grilling and beer drinking later, of course, but first, we had to earn our calories through vigorous exercise and game playing. At Bob's house, the game of choice was Full Contact Swimming Pool Basketball.

The players were me; Bob, aged 53 - a decent athlete when he was younger, but the recent recipient of an artificial knee and the body of a consultant who gets most of his exercise getting off and on planes; his son Tim, aged 14, all arms and legs, long and lithe, a runner and high jumper and a veteran of the 7th grade basketball team; Mike, aged 12, short and solid, built like a fire plug, personable and engaging, shaking hands with people and introducing himself since he was 3, and a dead ringer for Bob; Matthew, aged 10, smallish and copper haired, the "baby" of the family and great friends with Mike; and Jon, my son, aged 24, 6'1", 185 - not a gym rat, but a consistent 9 minute miler on the treadmill, a 46er, and a citizen of the world - seeing much of it on foot, carrying a backpack and pulling a giant wheeled suitcase.

The hoop was mounted on a three foot pole, embedded in the side of the pool, near the shallow end. We play 3 on 3: me, Bob and Matthew against Jon, Tim and Mike. Ball hits the rim on a shot - clear it past the flower pot located midway on the shallow end. After a basket, losers get the ball and take it in - but not before the ball is handed to an opposition player, "checked" and handed back. Simple, right?

First play, I have the ball, check it with Tim, and immediately pass to Mike, who is not on my team. He kicks it in to Jon, who jams it home. Oops. Next play, Bob takes it out, and passes to me. Matthew is camped on the steps in the corner to the left of the basket - Bob says he has a great shot from there. I swing the ball to that side and pass to Matthew, except Tim cuts in front, snags the ball, drive to the hoop and lays it in. Oops.

After the check, I take the ball in, and hit Bob with a pass. He gets a quick shot off and swish, we score.

Mike takes the ball out and passes it to me for the "check" I don't check anything and immediately give it back to him, failing to note that Bob has come up, too. There is no one guarding Tim, which Mike notes, hitting him with a pass, leading to another easy score. Oops.

Next time, Bob brings the ball in. He passes to Matthew, but the ball glances off his hand, out of the pool. He and Mike both jump out of the pool and race to the ball. Mike grabs it flips to Tim and he bangs it home.

Bob says, "On any balls out of the pool who ever gets it, keeps it." Oops.

Bob brings it in and after the check, passes to me. I see Matthew open in the corner, and pass it to him. Only Tim out of my vision to my left, suckers me. He anticipates the pass, takes a quick step, throws out a long arm, intercepts the ball, sets and shoots. Nothing but net. Oops.

Bob takes it in and passes to me. I see Mike in the corner, but this time I also know Tim is off to the left. I fake a pass, and when Tim steps in this time, I pivot back towards Bob and, back to Tim, I hook the ball up and backwards, over my head and over Tim. Only Tim is quick and he recovers, jumps and intercepts, again sinking his shot. Matthew says, "Uncle Ron is terrible, does he have to be on our team?" Oops.


The ball goes out of the pool again on the next play and Tim goes for it. Only this time, Bob grabs him from behind and drags him back into the pool. I begin to understand the "full contact" part. The ball skitters toward the deep end and Bob goes for it. Jon tackles him and wrestles him for the ball. I go to Bob's aid, and grab Jon's arms to steal the ball - only I can't budge him. I manage to slide my hand under the inside of his hand, leveraging his thumb away, just like they teach you in life saving, and I pry the ball loose. I move to the basket and Jon jumps on me - I can barely move him. I struggle to the basket and start to go up, but he reaches over me and slaps my arm down and the ball loose. There isn't anything I can do about it.

So it goes. Tim shoots over me, goes around me and generally scores at will. Every time I touch the ball Jon is on me, and it's 50-50 as top whether I will manage to pass it off to Bob or lose possession - scoring is not an option. If I do get an open shot, it clanks, falls short or slides out of the pool.

The game ends with Matthew crying because Mike has grabbed him in the deeper end of the pool - he doesn't swim well at all and is scared. The rule had been "No tackling Matthew" but Mike got caught up in the spirit of combat and went for him. (The crying jag continues for a long while, because Matthew, no fool, knows he is supposed to get to his homework right after the game, and he figures out that this is a great diversion.) Mike had to stop because he has scraped his big toe on the rough bottom of the pool and is bleeding - he knew better but had forgotten to wear his water shoes. Jon hobbled off because he had twisted the muscles on the back of his leg in one of the tussles.

Me? I was beat - and beat up. I still have a bruise the size of a half dollar on my left bicep.

Later, in the hot tub, Tim mentions he had gotten his fingers broken last year in a game against one of the people from Bob's firm. Seems the guy was 6' 6" and like to camp under the basket. Someone lobbed him the ball and he slammed it in for a score, his forearm coming forcibly down on Tim's fingers - Tim had gotten into position for the block, ignoring the considerable size and mass disadvantage. To Tim, it was just an "oh, well."

Later still Tim and I shot hoops at the real basket in the driveway. Tim scored often. It took me 30 attempts top sink one hook shot from the top of the key- and my shoulder felt like it was going to fall off when I was done.

I tried one more thing - a trick shot I used to make regularly in P I G games - I wedged the ball between my palm and forearm and brought my arm straight up in front of my body, snapping my wrist upwards to release the ball towards the basket. Only, I couldn't get my arm above my shoulder and the ball rocketed out directly into the neighbor's hedges.

When I reflected on my performance later over a bottle of a bottle of Spotted Cow Ale from Wisconsin - I apparently could still raise my arm high enough to get the bottle to my mouth - I remembered that I could not move or think fast enough to fool a 14 year-old, could not muster enough strength to out muscle my 24 year old son, couldn't remember the simplest rules or recognize my own team mates, couldn't sink a hook shot I used to make with ease, and that these simple things caused my body to ache.

Until this day, I felt I was doing all right. I am a triathlete, I train and compete regularly, complete every competition I start and have never finished last.

But today, for the first time, I felt old.

Thus, the title of today's entry. It's from a poem by T.S. Eliot - "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock" and the lines I was reminded of go like this:

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I know how he felt.

See you out there - maybe......