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These games get old and cause premature aging

By GARY SHELTON
Published October 21, 2005

I am old. My hair is gray. My teeth are long.

I am old. I am a codger. Someday soon, I will be a coot.

Perhaps this does not surprise you, but it stuns the dickens out of me. I have spent all of my life being young, being really dedicated to it, and now, I have graduated. If you sawed me in half, and my children think this is a grand idea, you would find more rings than a teenager's cell phone.

Just goes to show you. Even if you don't open all of those letters from the AARP, the calendar still spins like the numbers at a gas pump.

I am old. The heroes of my youth, Mickey Mantle, Johnny Unitas and Wilt Chamberlain, are gone. Most of the Cartwrights, too. These days, I have more wear than Keith Richards' liver.

I am old. For years, I have suggested that if my wife ever caught me in a seedy hotel room, I would be there alone. Taking a nap.

So where did the time go?

Crying head coaches made me old. Hurricanes on steroids made me old. Stadium pat-downs made me old, especially when the security guard does not offer to buy me dinner.

You know what wrinkles my skin? Oafish commissioners.

This is not to say that David Stern is being racist with the NBA's new dress code. There is another possible explanation. Maybe Stern is simply bone stupid.

Come on. With all of the problems in the NBA, with the sagging ratings and the brawling players and the lost art of shooting a basketball, we are to believe that the chief problem is making sure the guy at the end of the bench is dressed like a head waiter?

Besides, it isn't as if wearing a suit changes what is underneath. Remember last year, when Kobe Bryant was on trial? He wore a suit. And how about Dennis Rodman? He loved to dress up, sometimes in the loveliest gowns, and did that make the league happy? No, it did not.

Unhappy wide receivers made me old. The realization that there are plenty of backup quarterbacks around, only most of them are starting, made me old. The knowledge Danica Patrick is now tougher than Mike Tyson made me old.

You know what hardens my arteries? Hockey shootouts.

Perhaps I am wrong on this. Shootouts are fun. Shootouts are exciting. On the other hand, why not hand the goaltender a chain saw and shoot fireworks during the plays, which would be mesmerizing. Because that isn't hockey? Well, neither is this. This is Arena Puck.

I have always had a problem when any sport changes its basic rules to decide a tied game. It's like deciding an extra-inning baseball game with a home run derby or a tied football game with a rousing contest of punt, pass and kick.

Just play it out, okay?

You know what grays my beard? Counterfeit celebrations.

There is a play in football where the wide receiver is running free, 10 yards ahead of some beaten cornerback, and the ball is overthrown. And the corner, still rotisserie-fresh, turns and high-fives his teammates.

There are other plays, too. The one where the offensive linemen point, then repoint, then point again. And then no one blocks anyone.

Then there is the one where the linebacker talks trash after an 11-yard run for the first down. The one where the referees huddle, with six flags on the ground, and decide that on second thought, nobody saw anything.

As long as we are talking about football, how silly are Wonderlic tests? Especially for punters. A Wonderlic tells you as much about a punter as a 40-time tells you about a Texas Hold 'Em competitor.

Watching quarterbacks throw for 3 yards on third and 6 made me old. Hearing you talk about your fantasy team made me old. Coaches who act as if they are keeping CIA secrets made me old.

You know what makes me talk about how good yesterday was? Tattoos.

Maybe this is a quirk. Music still sounds good to me. Long hair, strange hair, dyed hair has never bothered me. But for the life of me, I do not understand the urge to challenge sagging skin with fading ink.

Just buy a wall painting, okay?

Reverses on the goal line made me old. The Fred Smoot Cruise Lines made me old. The Rays' front office, where it looks as if Mary-Kate and Ashley lost their prom dates, made me old.

You want to know what makes me want to take up whittlin'? Young people.

Freddy Adu is 16 and is talking about a trade. Delmon Young is ticked off he isn't in the majors at 19. Despite a couple of guys named Cal Ripken and Alex Rodriguez, B.J. Upton has decided at 21 he doesn't want to move to third. Michelle Wie is 16 and has $10-million in the bank, which means my 10-year-old daughter has some work to do.

Tom Benson treating his franchise as if it was a free agent made me old. Baseball playoff games that finish later than Jimmy Kimmel made me old. That someone is currently deciding whether to buy Jose Canseco's book or Bill Romanowski's makes me old.

I am old. I am a grump. Someday soon, I will be a geezer.

I am old. I am 53 going on 1,000. If you are not careful, the same thing may happen to you.

[Last modified October 21, 2005, 02:15:38]