[Sport] Could I really play 70 different sports the year I turned 70?

[Ryzen2]

 

Call it a geezer crisis. An old man grasping for a semblance of youth. A harebrained scheme that would almost certainly end in lack of dignity or, even worse, serious injury. Seventy at 70 was nothing more than trying to participate in 70 different sports during my 70th year. The motivation? Simply to have some fun.

In retrospect, it turned out to be a fascinating adventure that encompassed not only exercise but travel, new acquaintances, history, family time and even learning a little about myself.

The goal was not to master any of these sports, but just to give them a whirl. Athleticism, after all, does not end at some arbitrary age. In every one of these activities, there are people much older who can play the game at a level I could never hope to achieve. “Try anything once,” was my motto, then move on. There were some standards. To qualify as a sport, the exercise or game would require at least some of the following: agility, strength, hand to eye co-ordination or at least leave me huffing and puffing. That obviously eliminated competitions such as poker, chess or hotdog-eating contests.

The lack of dignity bit came early. Shortly after my 70th birthday, I took a crack at paddle boarding. Not a confidence builder! Family members were greatly entertained watching me first try to get on the damned board, then stand on the board and finally fall into the water before trying all over again. Lesson learned: perseverance pays off. Eventually, I stood, I balanced and I paddled. An early success.

Winter sports brought their own challenges. Scrub hockey resulted in the odd collision, not because the old lads I was playing with meant to hurt anyone; it’s just that we couldn’t always stop. Then came the attempt to teach myself the basics of figure skating. They made it look so easy on YouTube. But just attempting a simple spin left me prostrate on the ice, my elbow and knee throbbing. Fortunately, there were no lasting injuries but it was a clear warning I was not 21 anymore. I refused to give in. Some might call it stubbornness, I preferred self-discipline. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. In this case, I learned the rudiments of the sport, enough to do a very short program. Not the slightest threat to Scott and Tessa.

When it came to downhill skiing, I willed myself not to fall. Admittedly there was a tinge of terror as I headed down the slope the first time but after all, it was only a bunny hill carved out of the Red River Floodway. That glorious soft March evening was capped by a beautiful Prairie sunset. A touch of paradise. Who could have predicted what was about to unfold?

A few days later, most of my province was shut down. COVID-19 proved a significant setback in my 70 at 70 goals. With virtually all sports facilities locked down, it became evident I would have to resort to my own devices if I were to keep going. Individual sports would have to be the order of the day. Running, jumping, walking. For track, I built my own high jump and constructed my own hurdles. I even came up with my own version of the Scottish games, tossing a makeshift caber and shot-putting a stone found in a ditch. Athletics does not have to be complicated.

Two and a half months later, Manitoba began to reopen, allowing travel to some superb sports facilities in various parts of the province. Pickleball and horseshoes were added during a visit to Riding Mountain National Park, hill climbing in the beautiful Pembina Valley and swimming in Lake Winnipeg. My discovery of unknown gems further added to the experience. The southeastern Manitoba community of Friedensfeld has no post office, no shops and only a handful of houses. However, cut from the corner of a farm field is a pristine baseball facility with green grass, floodlights, stands for the fans surrounded by what else… a field of corn. On my little adventure, I had stumbled across Manitoba’s own field of dreams.

A supportive family was essential to make my goal achievable. My wife was on hand to photograph every event and even participated in a couple of sports so that I could move forward. My three sons were always ready for a spirited game of something. Dodge-ball, tug-of-war and beach volleyball turned out to be events involving the whole family. It brought us together. One of the most memorable experiences was taking my nine-year-old granddaughter on her first trail ride.

Being a history buff provided an extra dimension to the journey. Evidence of sporting activity can be traced almost to the beginning of human activity. Skating has a patron saint, a form of hockey was played in ancient Greece, and Mary Queen of Scots once shocked her courtiers by showing up to play tennis wearing pants. Every sport has its story. Could our cave-dwelling ancestor ever have imagined that running, jumping or whacking a stick at a stone would someday serve as the basis for billion-dollar industries? Or provide endless entertainment for a man reaching his 70th year?

There were some health advantages to all the exercise I was getting and in the era of COVID-19, developing extra lung capacity can’t be bad. Each activity triggered endorphins that brought an immediate, if short-lived, high. Any athlete can identify with those feelings. Longer-term came the realization that dreams are important, regardless of how far-fetched or unrealistic they might seem. As youngsters we dream of playing in the NHL, hitting a home run at Yankee Stadium or participating in the Olympics. As we age, our hopes and dreams change, but one should never let them disappear. We need something to look forward to; what better than to wake up each morning knowing there is a game to play?

Garry Moir lives in Winnipeg.