I’m Not Getting Any Younger
The above statement is one of those obvious clichés that writers use to fill space or catch someone’s attention. It goes without saying, like the sentence, “Things used to be different,” or Mitch Hedberg’s joke: “One time a guy handed me a picture of himself, and he said, “Here's a picture of me when I was younger.” Every picture of you is of when you were younger. I wanted him to say, “Here's a picture of me when I am older.” You son of a b@#$%, how'd you pull that off? Let me see that camera…”
However true and unnecessary the title of this post may be, I realized it when watching Vince Young’s Superman imitation in this year’s Rose Bowl. On the cruise ship, there was a jumbotron showing the game on the top deck. As I lounged and watched, I had an epiphany of sorts (having turned 25 a week earlier) that I was now older than everyone on the field. It was shocking.
It was one thing when guys out of high school with 98 mph fastballs were inking deals for several million dollars, and I was just a freshman and 14 years old. I sort of new that I did not have, and may never have, the ability to throw a baseball that fast with pinpoint accuracy to a target 60 feet, 6 inches away. But I could still hope. I had three years to get the drop on my curveball up to snuff. There was still a window or possibility, although it was rapidly closing.
Even in college, I could watch the likes of Wally Szczerbiak or Yao Ming and know that we were about the same age. Maybe I couldn’t dunk a basketball or go 6-of-8 from behind the arc, but I still had my youth and could play intramurals okay. The guys on TV going to the Big Dance were at least my peers and I could cheer them on, which made me feel as though I was cheering on the possibility of equality between them and me.
But, this past Saturday I had another epiphany while staring at a TV screen (albeit much smaller in my own living room). I was watching the excellent documentary Murderball, which details the path of the USA Quad Rugby team as they play for the gold in the Para Olympics in Greece. These athletes may be paralyzed, but in no way would I want to go head to head with them, wheelchair or not, on the rugby court. Tough is too bland a word to describe the mettle of these men.
The last scene of the movie left me reeling. After an hour of watching the human saga that affects each paralytic, after an hour of empathizing with the desire to win and the desire to be seen as equal, the last scene, which had nothing to do with competition or knocking people over in wheelchairs, has consumed my thoughts for the last 72 hours. In this scene, the rugby team is back in America, putting on a demonstration for wounded soldiers from the Iraq war. By demonstrating and horse playing, the team is giving hope for a normal life to several soldiers whose legs and arms are now missing. But what shocked me most was the fact that I was older than those who are serving and dying half a world away.
Some people look young. My wife looks much younger than me and constantly gets carded, when in fact she is older. And some people look older than they are. I get that. That’s humanity and nature combining to produce the faces and bodies that we have very little control over (unless you know Dr. 90210). But, the faces of the wounded veterans don’t lie. These individuals, and the face one young man in particular, screams 19 years old - twenty-one, tops. I am four years this guy’s senior and he is already destined to a life full of more medical problems than me. For me, the hope of normalcy presented by the movie is almost wiped out by the reality of who is fighting this war. It is our youth.
This is a story that doesn’t get played much over here. While the president is off talking about patriotism and sacrifice, should-be college students are shooting, bombing and defending. While Cindy Sheehan is painted as a traitor, the reality of a mother’s loss is neglected. And while we can’t yet see the void left by a young population whose deaths now top 2200, the effects will hit us years later, perhaps at the freeway exchange. There will be a man, sitting in a wheelchair with a cardboard sign that says, “Iraq War Veteran – Please Help.”
And then you and I are at a point of reality. It’s easy for me, a twenty-five year old who will never go to Iraq in war or peacetime, who writes his thoughts down for a living, who lives in comfort and barring unforeseen tragedy will live a healthy life for the next seventy years – it’s easy for me to think the conflict is ten thousand miles away. But one day, it will be next door and down the street. The man at the end of the movie will be your coworker or in the line at the soup kitchen. I hope to God he will have something to show for it.
As I chided Code Pink so long ago, protest gets you so far. And so does lip-service support. Those who really want to help and support our troops better be ready for the aftermath of this war. It’s consequences, personal and communal, will be deeper than we can fathom at this point in time. We’re not getting any younger, but our soldiers are.
However true and unnecessary the title of this post may be, I realized it when watching Vince Young’s Superman imitation in this year’s Rose Bowl. On the cruise ship, there was a jumbotron showing the game on the top deck. As I lounged and watched, I had an epiphany of sorts (having turned 25 a week earlier) that I was now older than everyone on the field. It was shocking.
It was one thing when guys out of high school with 98 mph fastballs were inking deals for several million dollars, and I was just a freshman and 14 years old. I sort of new that I did not have, and may never have, the ability to throw a baseball that fast with pinpoint accuracy to a target 60 feet, 6 inches away. But I could still hope. I had three years to get the drop on my curveball up to snuff. There was still a window or possibility, although it was rapidly closing.
Even in college, I could watch the likes of Wally Szczerbiak or Yao Ming and know that we were about the same age. Maybe I couldn’t dunk a basketball or go 6-of-8 from behind the arc, but I still had my youth and could play intramurals okay. The guys on TV going to the Big Dance were at least my peers and I could cheer them on, which made me feel as though I was cheering on the possibility of equality between them and me.
But, this past Saturday I had another epiphany while staring at a TV screen (albeit much smaller in my own living room). I was watching the excellent documentary Murderball, which details the path of the USA Quad Rugby team as they play for the gold in the Para Olympics in Greece. These athletes may be paralyzed, but in no way would I want to go head to head with them, wheelchair or not, on the rugby court. Tough is too bland a word to describe the mettle of these men.
The last scene of the movie left me reeling. After an hour of watching the human saga that affects each paralytic, after an hour of empathizing with the desire to win and the desire to be seen as equal, the last scene, which had nothing to do with competition or knocking people over in wheelchairs, has consumed my thoughts for the last 72 hours. In this scene, the rugby team is back in America, putting on a demonstration for wounded soldiers from the Iraq war. By demonstrating and horse playing, the team is giving hope for a normal life to several soldiers whose legs and arms are now missing. But what shocked me most was the fact that I was older than those who are serving and dying half a world away.
Some people look young. My wife looks much younger than me and constantly gets carded, when in fact she is older. And some people look older than they are. I get that. That’s humanity and nature combining to produce the faces and bodies that we have very little control over (unless you know Dr. 90210). But, the faces of the wounded veterans don’t lie. These individuals, and the face one young man in particular, screams 19 years old - twenty-one, tops. I am four years this guy’s senior and he is already destined to a life full of more medical problems than me. For me, the hope of normalcy presented by the movie is almost wiped out by the reality of who is fighting this war. It is our youth.
This is a story that doesn’t get played much over here. While the president is off talking about patriotism and sacrifice, should-be college students are shooting, bombing and defending. While Cindy Sheehan is painted as a traitor, the reality of a mother’s loss is neglected. And while we can’t yet see the void left by a young population whose deaths now top 2200, the effects will hit us years later, perhaps at the freeway exchange. There will be a man, sitting in a wheelchair with a cardboard sign that says, “Iraq War Veteran – Please Help.”
And then you and I are at a point of reality. It’s easy for me, a twenty-five year old who will never go to Iraq in war or peacetime, who writes his thoughts down for a living, who lives in comfort and barring unforeseen tragedy will live a healthy life for the next seventy years – it’s easy for me to think the conflict is ten thousand miles away. But one day, it will be next door and down the street. The man at the end of the movie will be your coworker or in the line at the soup kitchen. I hope to God he will have something to show for it.
As I chided Code Pink so long ago, protest gets you so far. And so does lip-service support. Those who really want to help and support our troops better be ready for the aftermath of this war. It’s consequences, personal and communal, will be deeper than we can fathom at this point in time. We’re not getting any younger, but our soldiers are.
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