30-something…

January 4th, 1972.  For all my Facebook friends whose requests for Birthday Calendars I have ignored, this is the only time I will publicly share it.  But don’t worry, I want no gifts and honestly don’t mind if you never remember it.

I have a good friend who when turning 30 celebrated declaring that he had long since past the days when he could be a cool 20-something, but he was confident about being a cool 30-something without changing a thing.

I embraced his belief as my own. And then I turned 37.

I do not project that a mid-life crisis is on the horizon. I love my beautiful wife dearly and even more, she actually loves and accepts me. I could find no better companion. I love my children more than life itself. They are a father’s greatest joy. I have a few wonderful, lifelong friends. God has been very good to me.

But there is something different about 37.

I’m not sure when it first hit me. I turned 37 the way I like to celebrate birthdays – quiet, without much pomp and circumstance, with good friends, good food, and good wine. Perhaps it is that year 38 is being lived in the worst economic crisis is my lifetime. Perspective seems a bit more accessible (and much more affordable) these days.  Maybe it has taken 37 years for me to settle on what I really like, to determine what is really worth my time and to become comfortable with who I am and who I can be.

2007 and 2008 seemed to be years of transition and crisis, as much for those around me as for me and mine. Wherever I was I believed there was somewhere else I was suppose to be.  In my mind, I moved to three different new cities and had at least two new jobs.  I developed several new theories about how life really works only to see them fail the test of time.  And as I have plodded through the first few months on 2009, I have retreated to some unexpected places in the recesses of my soul and I think I found a bit of something that had been missing.

Baseball. As a child I loved baseball.  As a Braves fan in the ‘80’s, it was a matter of discipline to watch a game, but it was love that took me to practice three nights a week.  Family vacations were spent traveling to major league parks like old Memorial Stadium in Baltimore and devouring Dodger Dogs at Chevez Ravine in LA, chasing foul balls with my dad and my brother.  In the 90’s the Braves epitomized unfulfilled potential and yet one of my favorite moments was sitting in the left field stands for game 2 of the 1995 World Series watching Glavine win his first of two games which brought Atlanta’s only World Championship.  Add to that the many years of multiple nights and tournaments playing softball and it is safe to say that “the game” was a first love only to be replaced by the love of my wife.

In recent years, however, my passion for baseball waned.  I am convinced little league tee ball and baseball killed it.  The games are three hours long with more kids picking flowers than chasing foul balls.  My kids were drawn more to the constant action soccer provided and my wife, the college soccer player, was thrilled to encourage them in that direction.  Both my attention span for “the game” and my hamstring muscles began to atrophy as I laid down my glove retiring from softball and spent only a few moments a day shedding the disappointment of box scores as the Braves struggled to find their past glory (or better said, fighting the inclination to recapture their past lethargy).  Baseball had become filler in between football seasons.

Late last summer the Braves made one last post-All Star Game charge before quickly petering out.  But during that 5 game stretch, I order the MLB plan.  It was an impulse buy.  This season I made sure to have my wife call and cancel the automatic renewal as I was very aware that tighter budgets certainly left no room for baseball.  And then I watched opening night.  The Braves win.  Hope springs eternal.  The strange thing was there was a comfort level watching the game I had not experienced in years.  The previous three seasons, I watched maybe 3 whole games.  But I found myself scrambling to undo the cancellation notice in order to watch the Braves play the second game of the season.  (“No ma’am, I am certain my wife would never actually call and cancel the subscription” – you get the point).

So far I have seen more than a dozen games this season.  Win or lose, “the game” seems to be drawing me into its slower, even majestic pace.  At 37, I have discovered I don’t just need to, but want to slow down.

My daughter turns 13 in August and presently stands 5’5”.  She is so quickly becoming a women and I can do nothing to slow the process.  My son seems to barely resemble the little boy who was so dependent on his Daddy for survival as he is ready to take on the world by himself.  And it has happened so fast.  I look in the mirror and seem to have found the 20 lbs everyone keeps trying to lose – and it’s not going anywhere.  The signs of aging show up everywhere, beckoning me to work harder and move faster in order to slow their progress.  I have the carrot of success dangling as I hit my “key earning years” and somehow I wound up on the rollercoaster I warned so many about.  Best laid plans…

And yet while “the game” like all of us has met its share of crisis and change, at its core it remains simply the same.  Perhaps that is at the heart of my renewed affair.  At 37, I desire more simplicity, more harmony; a renewed rhythm that reminds me at my core what really matters.

And in case you are wondering, the Braves have at 7:40 start time.  Chances are, I’ll be watching.

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~ by jdlee55 on May 29, 2009.