I used to pride myself on not worrying about my weight, not bothering with nonsense about diets and fitness. I was as thin as a whippet. No need to cut back. No need to worry. I'd gloat as my father announced for the nth time that the diet would start tomorrow.
Diets were for old, fat people, not for me. I was, - am - a handballer. I've been playing since my teens and I used to be decent enough. I like the game's geometry, figuring out the angles of the ball in flight. Ah, handball. A game for warriors, two players facing each other mano a mano. Chess on hairy legs.
I used to revel in it. No longer. I'm simply too old. Recently, I had a particularly hard match. I played well enough, swinging my right arm like Thor's hammer, and won all the games. Unfortunately, I woke the following day to find that same arm must belong to someone else - I couldn't feel it. I take that back: I could feel it, but only the pain. I used to be a sportsman but now I'm not too sure.
Past glories
There is something sad about amateur sportsman past their prime. We all have memories of past glories (few and far between in my case); we know how we're supposed to play; we know all the shots; and yet, the brain and arms refuse to function in co-operation.
The brain says: "Run and hit the ball with your right hand into the roof and force your opponent onto the back foot." Eventually, the legs respond to the command only to find that you are, in actual fact, kicking the duvet off the bed. The game ended yesterday. Obviously, every sportsman has these moments of fatigue. "It's not my fault," is my mantra. I've too much work. It's the children. It's speaking Irish. It just takes up so much time. It's making the dinner. It's eating the dinner. It's the television. I'm just too tired.
I was a student for nine years. (It seemed like a good idea at the time.) Plenty of opportunity to read, talk and train. I used to train every day of the week - handball, swimming, running, weights. And I could eat (and did eat) every bit of rubbish that came my way. Now the spare tyre has become a permanent fixture. Like most tyres, it sometimes goes up, and it sometimes goes down. But it is always there. I can feel it moving around my waist, making me bigger and bigger. It is alive. It is stronger and smarter than me. It's going to take over the world. Aaargh. Run for your lives.
Hence the continued pursuit of exercise, the undignified sight of a 30-something male throwing himself around a handball court in the name of club pride. Do it for the club. Aye, watch me creak.
Old dog
As sports go, handball offers much comfort for the aged. Competitions are graded. Only another six years and I'll be able to enter the Masters. Just wait and see me then. I'll show those 40-year-old geriatrics. Oops. I've just realised that I will be one of them.
Still, this old dog has the potential to learn some new tricks. Later, that is, when I'm really old. The smart players just let the ball do the work for them. They hit it and let their opponents run themselves ragged in its pursuit. Unfortunately, I haven't quite wised up to my limitations. I continue to follow the ball like some demented cocker spaniel, tongue hanging out, head rolling from side to side. Go on boy, you can do it. Go on. Go on. Woof, woof.
I don't want to talk myself down too much. I still have a bit of flair left. There are days when the serve comes right and I watch with satisfaction as the ball kicks as it is supposed to. Or the roof shot which just nudges the back wall and drops like a brick. Or the kill shot which impersonates a rocket. Or the passing shot which leaves the opponent swiping at air.
Ireland's heritage
But most days, it's just a question of flapping at the ball. And hoping. And flapping. And hoping. It's called sport. It's called culture. And it is my duty as a patriot and lover of Ireland's heritage to keep these traditions alive. But the pain of being culturally active is becoming too much. The pain in the shoulders, the back, the thighs, the knees, the bruised fingers. If it can be bruised and battered, it will be bruised and battered.
I know too that it's becoming too much when the day after a game I can't even find the energy to go for a run. It's preferable by far just to sit in the bath and rest. Worse too is when you find yourself still sore the day after the day after. No puff for anything other than a wee walk up and down the road. Walking is not so bad. It's not just for old people, you know.