The stakes were low.
I was playing a pickup game of indoor soccer at the college rec center with some friends.
There were no trophies to be hoisted. There was no money to be won.
All that was on the line was bragging rights.
Still, as I lined up in a defensive position, I prepared to go full throttle. I didn’t get to play soccer all that often, and I was going to make the most of this opportunity.
I got as close as I could to the opposing forwards. If they tried to advance, I’d poke the ball past their heels and race around them to pass it to a teammate. If they tried to pass or shoot, I’d get my body in the way.
This style of play was more suitable for hockey than soccer. And I soon found out why.
A sizzling shot from an opponent hit me square in the jaw. The entire left side of my face went numb for a moment. It proceeded to tingle, and then throb.
My teammates asked if I was alright to continue. I gave them a nod and carried on.
Moments later, another shot hit me in the groin. I doubled over from the blow. But after taking a moment to gather myself, I fought through.
Finally, I went to block a shot, and an opponent’s foot clipped my left shin. I tried to continue after this setback too but quickly found that to be impractical.
The blow to my shin had sapped all the power from my left leg — which is my dominant one. Crisp passes quickly devolved into feeble dribblers across the hardwood.
I subbed myself out of the game. Then I sat on the bench, catching my breath.
Once the game had finished, I headed back to my dorm, showered, and changed clothes.
That was it.
There was no ice pack. No ibuprofen. No imminent trip to the health center to get checked out.
I simply went about my business. And the next day, I was no worse for wear.
I was young and I was durable. Bouncing back from an injury was as easy as pie.
Fast forward nearly half my life. It’s a weekend morning and I’m heading to the gym. But on the way there, I slip on a slick spot on the concrete. I fall partway down a flight of stairs and land on my lower back.
I lie on the steps for a few moments, feeling every bit of the blunt-force trauma I’ve endured. But after a quick check, I determine I haven’t broken any bones. So, I cautiously get back to my feet and continue my trek.
This time, though, I realize something is amiss.
My bruised back causes me problems for the rest of the day, the entire next day, and the ensuing week. I go to the doctor, get a prescription for anti-inflammatories, and put a heating pad on the bruise.
Nothing seems to work. And I start to get flustered.
Sure, I fell, I tell myself. But young children fall all the time. And they get right back up as if nothing happened.
The same went for my teenage self. My actions following that pickup soccer game are proof positive of that.
What’s different this time? I have no good explanation.
Then, lying in bed one night, it hits me.
I’m older now. And an increase in age means a spike in fragility.
I should be reassured by this straightforward fact. But I am not.
Several years ago, the Dallas Cowboys took the field for a critical late-season football game.
After shoving an opposing ballcarrier out of bounds, Cowboys defensive back Byron Jones noticed his knee was askew. Sitting on the turf, he calmly popped the knee back into place, got back up, and played the rest of the game.
Jones credited his flexibility for the quick adjustment. But he likely could have credited his age as well.
You see, Jones was in his first year of professional football. Only 23 years old, Jones was primed for athletic feats. He could leap to deflect passes, run with the fastest offensive players, or even put his knee back into position when necessary.
These days, Jones can do none of those things. While he hasn’t officially retired from football, Jones has noted that he can no longer run or jump — two skills needed to play his position.
As I write this, Jones is still in his early 30s. If his vocation were that of a foreman, a financial accountant, or a firefighter, he’d be decades away from retirement. But as a football player, he’s used goods.
This is by design.
Football has no tolerance for fragility. It’s a violent sport. One that frontloads the value of its combatants and then discards them as they depreciate.
Those over-the-hill players are quickly forgotten — their battered and brittle bodies withering away beyond the glow of the limelight.
If not for the harrowing headlines regarding CTE, we wouldn’t know anything about their plight.
This is unfortunate, as such knowledge could be mutually beneficial.
Seeing how the titans of sports deal with their accelerating fragility can give us a roadmap for dealing with our own brittleness. And it can help us support these gladiators as they transition into the next stage of their lives.
Such knowledge can also help us overcome our own demons. Indeed, this is a sentiment I understand all too well.
Traditionally, I’ve never been one to succumb to any age-related meltdowns. I’ve been as steadfast and determined in my 30s as I was in my 20s.
But this sudden reminder of my fragility has shaken me a bit.
So much of my identity is harnessed to my resilience. On my ability to shake off a soccer ball to the face, a shot to the groin, a kick in the shin.
If a fall sets me back this much, what does that mean? Has my identity corroded? Will my response to setbacks — physical or otherwise — remain compromised?
I’ve been thinking about all of this, searching for a definitive answer.
And the closest I’ve gotten to one came from the words of Byron Jones.
We were all more flexible and resilient way back when. But now, it’s okay to need a moment.
It’s one thing to note our fragility. It’s another to accept it.
But then what?
This is not like the 12-step program, where we might be building toward something. No, frailty is more in the other direction. A steady crumbling of the tower that we’ve built.
There is no clear path back to where we once were. There is only a choice.
Will we continue to take calculated risks, knowing that the downsides are steeper than ever? Or will live in fear of an all too real unknown?
I’ve chosen the first path.
I realize now that danger lurks at every turn. I understand that recovery is more of a process than a breeze.
But I also realize that life is too precious to waste for fear of a bad outcome. Even as those outcomes are more challenging than ever to bounce back from.
This is my choice. But it’s not the only one.
Indeed, plenty of others have faded away under the weight of time. They’ve seen their shadows and retreated into their shells.
Neither decision is inherently right nor wrong.
But make no mistake. Each of us has decided.
Fragility, dear readers, is a fact of life. The effects of time are inevitable.
It’s how we handle such an unwelcome reality that defines us. Not just in this moment, but possibly in many others to come.
So, let’s be brave. Let’s be thoughtful. But most of all, let’s be true to ourselves.
It’s not too much to ask.