An uninteresting topic for the young, and an overdone topic for others, but this is starting to get personal.

I am 61 (is 60 the new 50?) and notice things. I notice that I don’t recover as quickly from a workout. I know that my ankle won’t actually get better, and I won’t be doing a lot of running any longer. I can see signs of aging in my face now. I know that I love to nap (okay never mind that one, I have always loved to nap).

I grew up as an athletic young fella; learned to play soccer and did so until I was 50, and tore the ACL in each knee successively, after I was 40. I started to notice that when I pulled a muscle it took months to heal. WTF – I could get back on the soccer field the following week when I was in college.. I got to play with my kids only once or twice in the town Adult soccer league, before I was forced to retire from playing and resorted to coaching. I couldn’t wait for my oldest to get strong enough to go for a run with me. She did so, and we ran together for about a year and then she just passed me by (and joined the track team), so that was about it.

Now I am over 60 and something always niggles. It could be that goddamn ankle (arthritic now, they tell me, after 40 years of playing soccer and spraining it countless times), or it could be my shoulder, or my wrist. Whatever it is, it goes away, especially if I ignore it or just don’t use it for a while, but this is discouraging.

I still play tennis; I don’t go for runs much any more but I go for walks every day – dogs are good for that. I pay attention to what I eat now – my son nudged me into the keto diet and I lost weight and feel better.

I guess what they say is right- aging happens to everyone, and it sure beats the alternative. Here’s to hoping that 70 is the new 60.

My son asked me this the other day. It was the day after we all went skiing as a family, so I suppose it was perfectly natural for him to wonder why I don’t do it very often. In fact I think it had been two years since i last went skiing. I gave him a somewhat incomplete answer, explaining that I never learned when I was young, wasted the chance to ski for very little expense while in college and never got very good at it. Now that I am in my 60s and have had knee operations and terrible ankles, I am not confident bombing down the mountain like they do. As I reflect on my answer, i find it’s not really complete.

The truth is that I don’t really like the sport. Don’t get me wrong, I love hanging out with my family and they all like to ski. I will say yes anytime they ask. Note the photo at the bottom from the other day when we were all together. It was really great – but I would do anything to spend an afternoon (or a morning or an evening) with my family. Now my kids are grown I grab those opportunities whenever they are presented.

But now, the truth (they don’t read my blog anyway) about skiing. It is a real pain in the ass! First there is the expense – the equipment (skis, boots, skiwear), the fees at the mountain, the lodge, and then there is the getting there and back. Its not like you can just pop your skis on and head out the back door (unless you live there – congrats if you do). then you spend most of your day trying to get UP the mountain, standing in lines in the cold so you can enjoy the 5 minutes it takes to slide down…doing your level best not to hit something and break something, whether a tree, another skier or your own leg (you will never hurt those kids who go bombing past you, there is no way to catch them). Then there is the pain – those boots were designed specifically to torture people. I remember what they used to call “Lang bang” which is an industry term for how your shins feel after a short while wearing Lang ski boots. The best feeling in the world? Taking those effing boots off at the end of the day and putting my shoes back on, knowing I survived and can progress to “apres ski.” Of course the ski wear is just as important at “apres” as it is on the mountain. When you are at the fancy resorts, you need to have at least $1000 worth of cool colors on your back to avoid being scoffed at.

I am admittedly resentful of the fact that I am a lousy skier, given I never even tried it until I was in my mid-20s. There are few sports that I can’t play at least reasonably well – skiing (and ice skating) are at the top of the list. It’s therefore humbling to get out there and suck at it each time.

All this aside now, there are mountains that are low key, where you don’t have to wear fancy clothes, where you can rent equipment for a reasonable price, where the crowds are not bad and you don’t have to queue just to get up the mountain on a lift and where the runs are kind and gentle enough so that I am not terrified about landing on Dr. Lynch’s operating table again….and the chance to spend a day with my family? That’s worth anything, frankly. Boy I really do like skiiing, sometimes.

I am now 61 years old, and I reflect back on to the importance of soccer in my life. It is interesting (to me) that I can recognize how valuable this game has been, and I have to think about why and how it came to be that way. It is a beautiful game, captivating to me, and has enabled some of the most valuable relationships in my life. It still does,.

When I was a student at Valley Forge Junior High School in Pennsylvania, so it must have been 6th grade, I tried out for the (american) football team. I distinctly remember playing for just a few days. I would saddle up all of that equipment, all of those pads and join in the practice sessions. I didn’t play long enough to have any idea whether I could do well at the game, but I do remember thinking that these kids could make hamburger out of me. I was pretty small and scrawny, and didn’t see much of a future. I quit.

Somehow I discovered that there was a soccer team at Valley Forge. I tried out for that instead (i don’t recall whether there were any ‘cuts’ to be made) and made the team. I was reasonably fast as well as quick, but certainly i couldn’t have had any skill at the game. Nonetheless, off I went, and I became reasonable – at least as compared to others in my age group. I still remember scoring a goal or two and enjoying running all the time. When I got to high school, I doubled down on soccer. I got a lot better at it – controlling the ball, perfecting my left-footed shot, learning all the intricacies of the game. I fell in love with it and eventually became captain of the team and won some accolades in the community – I was chosen as scholar-athlete of the year by one of the Philadelphia newspapers. Conestoga High School was a large school. My class had over 700 students, so we played in front of crowds…not crowds like the football team enjoyed, mind you, but people came and watched us. We had a stadium and lights, and it was a thrill to play under the lights on a friday night. stunning memories, they were.

I went on to Dartmouth College and played as a freshman. I thought I was pretty good, but of course everybody did. I remember one of the first day of practice, the coach ran a sprint drill called ‘categories,’ whereby we would all line up on the end line and go when he called our category. “Everyone who was captain of their high school team, GO!” Most of us took off sprinting. “Everyone who was all-league in high school, GO!” Most of us would take off running….After a few of these, we got the message. We all thought we were hot shits, but now everybody was; it was designed to humble us and it did.

Nonetheless, I made the team and was not bad. I was fast, had reasonable ball skills and a cannon of a left foot (the right foot was pretty useless, other than to hold me up to shoot with my left). My sophomore year, I tried out for the varsity, which was a big deal. I was quite confident I was good enough, but somehow the varsity coach didn’t agree. He met with me after tryouts and asked me to play another year on junior varsity, to work on improving my right foot so I could be a more complete player. He admitted that my left footed shot was the best on the team by far, but said it wasn’t good enough. What a jerk he was – I quit the team in a fit of pique, as I didn’t want to spend another year on JV, when I knew I should be on the varsity team. This, of course, is one of my biggest regrets from my college career, and maybe in life. I blamed it on the coach of course, but just couldn’t see my way to playing another year on JV. I played intramurals for the rest of my career at Dartmouth and look back on my decision with great regret and sadness.

I never stopped playing, really. I joined adult soccer leagues, played pickup games and wherever I could. I just loved playing this game. I played in an adult league in Australia when we lived there and excelled – scoring more goals than most – and really enjoying playing competitively again. This lasted until I had my very first serious injury – I tore the anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) in my knee. This was not something I was expecting. It turns out Australia is as good a place to get knee surgery as anywhere and I had my ACL reconstructed by one of the docs who apparently also does rugby and soccer players around Oz. It took a good 6 months to get back into condition again and it was not fun.

The other thing I tried for the first time in Sydney, Australia was coach. My older boy was about 6 years old and playing on a local squad. Seems they didn’t have a coach for some reason and i was drafted. I had never coached before and 6-year-olds are different from kids in college (ya think?). We played like most of the other 6-year-old teams for a few weeks, meaning that all the boys (these were boys) clustered around the ball up and down the field, trying to kick it in the general direction of their opponent’s goal. Not much skill in all that. It was then that I had my best youth coaching idea ever. I brought bags of sweets (candy) to the next game and asked “guess who is going to win the bag of sweets today?” to which the boys shouted out “the ones who score the goals!!”. But no….”I said, no that’s not it. Does anyone know what an assist is?” I explained that an assist was when you pass it to someone else to score the goal, and the made it clear that the bag of sweets was for the player(s) who made assists, rather than goals. Well, you have never seen the power of incentive systems like this one…the boys spread out, passing it to each other so much that I started to wonder if anyone would ever shoot. We never lost another game that season.

We moved from Australia to the gloried home of football, the United Kingdom. This was where it all started, I was told. I had started watching Manchester United with the boys while living in Australia and now here we were in their home country. Now my older boy was about 9 years old and wanted to keep playing. I had my doubts because kids play seriously in the UK, but we went to the tryouts at our local club, Ascot United, which was apparently quite a famous local club (kids don’t play for their schools in UK, but for clubs). Jack made the team – I think he was the only American kid – and the first week or two was fun to watch, as he could hold his own. He was pretty big and strong for his age and learning some skill. That was when the team lost its coach – he moved away and needed to be replaced. This was a non-trivial problem as the season had started, and the Director of the program brought all the parents together to explain and then ask for volunteers, “would any of the parents be willing to coach these boys?” I thought to myself that I now had a couple seasons’ experience coaching, albeit in Australia, not here in fabled London. I hesitated. “Anyone? please?” asked the Director again. I slowly put my hand up. Now, he knew that I was Jack’s Dad, which made me a Yank, of course. He looked at me, just for a second and continued, “Anyone? anyone at all?” After another minute of waiting with no other hands going up, he reluctantly (serious reluctance here) came back to me and asked “have you coached football before?” I explained that I had done so in Australia and played most of my life, but the skepticism was obvious. Sadly, he had no other alternative, nor did the other parents. They probably thought I’d be screaming “Kick it! Hit him!” like any american football coach. So when every other parent took a step backward, I ended up the coach of Ascot United’s U10 team. This was so much fun. I easily exceeded expectations from the parents, as I understand the game and can help teach the boys some technique and strategy. We had a good team and won most of our games. While most of the other parents must have been shaking their heads, it was fun to show them I was more than just a silly yank.

Eventually I was transferred back to the USA for my work. I ended up commuting for a few months, so the kids could finish the school year while I started my new job in NYC. I would take the friday night overnight flight from NY to London, land, and head straight to Jack’s football so I could still coach. I would then get a Monday morning flight back to NY. It was all so worth it.

When we moved back to USA, I continued to coach Jack for a few years. He got connected with a wonderful Brazilian coach by the name of Rodrigo Nunes. I agreed to be Rodrigo’s assistant with Jack’s club team and I learned a lot from Rodrigo. I also started playing again in the men’s league in our town of Weston, Ct. I was having a blast….until I tore the ACL in my other knee. After getting that one repaired and doing months of physiotherapy, Dale promised me that if I started playing again and hurt myself again I would be recovering on my own. I did play some more but found that – now I was 50 years old – every time I pulled a hamstring, it would take months to recover. Sigh, my playing days were clearly over. Two scarred knees (with new ACLs), some very arthritic ankles from all the sprains, and that did it.

I coached Jack until he got to high school, when he played for the school team. It was a tough transition to hit the stands, but was fun to watch him – he was the team Captain and star centerback on a playoff team. I will never forget those days.

Next up was young Will!

We moved back to USA when Will was only 6 years old. He decided he wanted to try little league baseball and also soccer. I coached both – volunteer coaching is a wonderful experience. You get to hang out with your kid, talk sports and also hang out with other people’s kids (that sounds more creepy than I intended). Will turned out to be a somewhat mediocre baseball player, but it was fun for a few seasons. On the soccer field he was tentative and not a natural. But I discovered something about Will’s personality – he was tenacious. He refused to give up, even though I wondered if he would stick with soccer. He did so, and slowly improved until he got pretty darn good. I recommitted myself as well and went out and got my class D coaching license by attending a course at U Bridgeport. I was then able to coach Will’s team for the years until they got to high school. We made a good team, going undefeated at least once. I got to know Will’s friend, and I got to hang out with Will, talk soccer and life. He became the star defender on our team and went on to an excellent high school career. He didn’t follow in his brother’s footsteps – he created his own.

Neither boy ended up playing in college. Jack decided that he wanted to be a doctor and Will decided that going for varsity soccer wasn’t worth it for him either. They both played club soccer and still play when they can. I just love that they still love to play.

My older girl Katie also loved playing soccer. I never had the opportunity to coach her – which was a disappointment for me, as I would have loved that – but I spent time trying to work with her between her own practices and games, and she still likes to play as well. Only my second daughter failed to take up soccer, but she found our own way and always will. All four kids turned out wonderful. They are just the best.

Meanwhile, I reconnected with my teammates from Dartmouth. When you are a parent you devote most of your energy to your family. I stayed in touch with my dartmouth buddies, but it was just once in a while. Somehow, about 6-7 years ago, when most of our kids were out of the house, we created a small group of us. We started watching Premier League games together (virtually) on the weekends, communicating all during the games – first using a convoluted string of emails and then I convinced them to try Whatsapp. They got hooked immediately and so we messaged all through the weekend. This naturally led to the idea that we should physically get together. We planned our first soccer weekend in Florida, staying at Paul’s house. We watched soccer on tv, drank beers, went to see the Orlando MLS team and just hung out together. It was wonderful. I had never been much for guys’ weekends, but this was just the best, for all of us. We committed to doing it once a year, and have now met in Colorado, Chicago, Washington DC and I even got some of them to make the journey to London where I was living at the time. I got us tickets to a couple of games, at Fulham and at Arsenal, and we sprinkled some cultural activities and pub crawls in between.

Soccer has been a wonderful part of my life. It was part of my early life, my family life and is a tie that binds me with ‘the guys.’ Hardly a day goes by now when I don’t chat with my buddies, and as Abner likes to say “this fills my bucket.”

Sports can be a wonderful part of your life…not matter how accomplished you turn out to be. Soccer, however, is special. It is a team game, requires extraordinary skill and creativity. It flows, it is constant action. There are no significant breaks in the game. I wish I could still play, but I do still enjoy it every weekend…no matter how well my team does. The game itself is what draws us together; it’s an excuse to talk, to bond, to enjoy the art of the game and to deepen our friendships.

It is holiday season in America. To most people (i guess that includes me), it means Thanksgiving and Christmas, topped off by New Year’s Eve. I have to declare right off that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, full stop. Eating and drinking (two things I’m good at) with no social pressures of gift-giving, decorating and the like. Yes I am ignoring the massive effort that goes into preparing the turkey dinner, and admit that my wife does most of the hard work in that regard. I try to help, or at least claim to help, or maybe just claim to try to help….but the honest truth is that she does the work, and complains that I don’t help. But she’s so good at it! I love Thanksgiving dinner. We used to get everyone together. It’s difficult now, esp with Sarah living in London (funny that they don’t get Thanksgiving off work in the UK). This year we visited Katie, our oldest, in Colorado. She lives up in the mountains, in Winter Park, in a two-bedroom condo with her dog Mogul (yup, he even looks just like one). We had a nice quiet turkey dinner and it really was wonderful. It was relaxing and beautiful in the snowy mountains. We hiked and read and ate and drank a bit of wine, and that’s a good holiday in my book.

Christmas is Dale’s favorite holiday. She has loved it since she was a little girl, I think, and relishes decorating the house, baking cookies, buying gifts, the whole nine yards. Every year, i start out feeling like Scrooge. I always wonder why we have to spend hours putting up lights (getting pissed off when they don’t work and then buying new ones), decorating the whole house with boxes and boxes of decorations accumulated over the years. We spend too much money on gifts for everyone in the family, and I ask (admittedly halfheartedly) whether this is the year we can cut down on extravagant presents and maybe just give some money to charity or do some good works together, But she gets such joy from it all. And when the kids were little it was of course all compulsory and worth it. The rituals were important – we’d spread stardust (birdseed?) all around the house so the reindeer can find it, I always read The Night Before Christmas, we argued about opening one present on Christmas eve, we fought over when to wake up in the morning. Earlier in the week we have the battle of the gingerbread houses – Dale buys two kits and the boys compete with the girls to make the coolest house. The boys always make something akin to a war zone, complete with battle scenes, bodies, and the like. The girls make something beautiful. It’s usually a tie (awfully hard to judge). Jack’s birthday is 12/22 so we start with that celebration, and Katie’s is 12/24. When the kids got older (and there wasn’t a pandemic) we’d have a party on 12/23 to celebrate both birthdays – lots of friends were invited and we drank a lot. Christmas Eve was extra special because it was Katie’s day – she always chose (always) “pink fish” for her dinner – this being salmon, of course. The morning itself was pretty typical; we’d wake up, put on Christmas carols, and open presents. The last present of the day was always for Dale. You see one of our traditions started when Katie (the oldest) was two years old. She and I picked out a Santa for Mummy and it was our special present,. Each year since then (this will be our 30th year) we all pick out a Santa for Mummy – it’s important that we all vote, and thought its harder to all go shopping together now, we use whatsapp and texting to exchange photos of the candidates before I buy it. So many traditions! What’s amazing is that we still do all of them – the reindeer dust, the reading, the gingerbread houses, the decorations, the gifts, Dale’s Santa, the whole shebang….no matter how old we all get.

Okay, I admit it. Christmas is fun. 🙂