My final at-bat resulted in a standup triple. Unfortunately, ESPN, ESPN2 and ESPN3 were busy that night and didn’t record this epic event. And the 12 fans in attendance didn’t realize the history they were watching and failed to ask for even a single autograph or post-game, teary-eyed Lou Gehrig-esque speech.
That was my final softball game four years ago at the age of 40. It seems like only yesterday that I was wearing sliding shorts, buying $300 DeMarini nuclear-powered bats and cussing like Rex Ryan after grounding out in the first inning. Ah, yes, the good ol’ days. There’s nothing quite like a B-league softball game on a Sunday night—with a bunch of over-the-hill guys blowing out hamstrings, rotator cuffs and any semblance of maturity in a game that lasts less than 60 minutes. No warm-ups before and coolers filled with Bud Light afterward. Not exactly a Nike commercial.
For better or worse, that was my weekly athletic activity for about two decades. But with two kids now playing their own sports, a full-time job that occupies plenty of Saturdays and, honestly, my general lack of passion for this “sport,” it was time to hang up jersey No. 69 (just kidding, that’s the jersey of one knucklehead on almost every team out there. I was always faithful to No. 10).
When it comes to wellness, softball probably does more harm than good. Same for golf—unless you man up and walk. Of course, since many courses won’t even let you carry your own clubs, golfers can play 18 holes while drinking a six pack, smoking a couple of heaters and downing at least one yummy all-beef hot dog at the turn. Again, not exactly a Nike commercial.
But before you assume I think that all dads are fat, lazy slobs, let me tell you that’s not the case at all. I know plenty of my peers who do their best Lance Armstrong impressions (complete with the yellow jersey but without the drug allegations) or run marathons or play shirts-and-skins basketball every weekend. But let’s face facts: Staying in good shape is no easy task when you’re all too often sitting across from your 6-year-old and his chicken fingers and fries. Thank goodness for the very helpful book, Eat This, Not That by David Zinczenko and Men’s Health. It’s required reading for any dad who has kids under the age of 16. The fast-food edition is especially critical.
Working out for me has long been much too infrequent and much too low impact. I’ve rarely done it with the type of passion you need to actually make a difference. I’m by no means overweight. In fact, I could stand some beefing up. But I’ve been stuck in neutral so long that I’m not sure I’ve even got another gear.
Then along came this horrifying beast called P90X. Perhaps you’ve been hypnotized at 3 a.m. by the same infomercial as I have been. Sure you want to punch instructor Tony Horton in the gut with a crowbar, but muscle confusion sure seems to make a whole lot of sense. Of course, it helps that there are living, breathing and annoying testimonials all around me. Seems that everyone who owns a TV owns P90X and swears by the results.
So, yes, I’m in. I started this 90-day hostage crisis in mid-August, bought the chin-up bars and some weights. Then, for an hour a day, I disappear and go through a personal hell with Tony and his gang of merry men and women. One guy has a prosthetic leg. Everyone in the video looks like a million bucks—which I’m sure they now have in their bank accounts. Horton is the ringmaster. He talks while he works out. And he works out harder than anyone in the video, which makes him either the greatest athlete since Jim Thorpe or he’s a result of crafty editing. Either way, it’s pretty impressive.
Did P90X change my life and wellness? Well, I’m not washing laundry on my belly just yet. But it did give me some badly needed focus so I’ll count that as a success.
