The GOAT’s potential retirement is the most-anticipated news of the NFL offseason.
Tom Brady, and his six super bowl rings may have thrown his last pass. He’s thinking of leaving Gillette Stadium and staying home with Gisele for good.
Tom and I have been linked together for years and if he does retire, I think we should do so at the same time. I’m from Michigan. He played at Michigan. He’s from California. I live in California. I don’t mean retire from teaching. I’ve still got a good 10 years or so to devote to the young minds of San Pedro.
It’s time I officially retire as an athlete.
Though my athletic prowess never reached the professional or even collegiate ranks, I’ve had a long and widespread career at the amateur level. It spans the days of watching dandelions grow as a kindergarten outfielder to the pre-geezer era of slow-pitch softball. My coming out party as an athlete occurred when I was allowed to play infield as a first grader after a year of actually learning how to catch and throw a baseball.
My time in the NFL (Nerf Football League) as a grade-school wide receiver featured some of the most glorious moments of my career. I was a go-to-guy pass catcher, able to dodge front-yard trees and backyard swing sets like Jerry Rice avoided linebackers. My hands were soft as cotton and I was as sure-handed as they come. On defense, I was always able to find a way to win and usually I let my skills as a free safety do my talking. I loved baiting the opposing quarterback to throwing in my direction before I’d step in front of the intended receiver to pick off the pass and sprint to the end zone/driveway.
The summers in my neighborhood saw us return to the diamond life of baseball. Our field was Alec Rogers’ front yard. We belted tennis balls with aluminum bats off the triple-decked façade of the house across the street. I was always on top of my game at Alec’s house, hitting missiles like Kirk Gibson in Tiger Stadium. Outfielders from Fenway to Wrigley marveled at how I played the caroms off Mrs. Rotschafer’s upper deck and dug line drives out of her rhododendrons.
Afternoons were spent at the local swim and tennis club. I’d play tennis against my dad in epic five-sets showdowns, whacking cross-court winners like Bjorn Borg and charging the net like Johnny Mac. I always had to bring my A game in those summer battles of junior vs. senior. Those sessions on court were memorable and instructional. It’s where I learned to always play within myself and to figure out what it takes to win.
During high school, my tennis nemesis became my buddy Chip. Chip forced me to always give 110 percent and he encouraged me to take my game to the next level. Unfortunately, recreational tennis only has one level.
Chip was also the shortstop on our high school baseball team. I often played first base, and we were always on the same page. Back then Chip taught me to take our competition one game at time, except of course when we played double-headers.
My 20s and 30s were spent playing basketball as a speedy, height-challenged shooting guard. If your team won, you got to stay on the court, and I hated sitting out for a game or two. I was ultra competitive and I took pride in constantly doing all the little things that hoop victories required. I learned how to channel my high motor and great work ethic to shut down my opponent and drive in among the trees for my patented lefty scoop shot.
Then I discovered softball and I tried to be a two-sport star like Bo Jackson. But I ditched basketball to focus on the position where my career began: leftfield. Season after season, my team dominated, not because we were the most talented, but because we just knew how to win. We also played the game the right way, and honestly, I just think nobody wanted it more than we did. For more than a decade I lived for our Sunday-morning games. I loved batting leadoff and nothing was better than chasing down fly balls or scoring from first on a single.
A knee injury taught me how to overcome adversity while also providing a requisite sports sabbatical. Then a schedule conflict ended my career when my pastor moved church from evening to morning.
I hadn’t played for a few years, but last fall, I subbed for a friend’s team. As the newbie, I had to bat last. I was playing with a bunch of guys who were unaware of my past softball supremacy. To no surprise I picked up where I left off, with three straight hits. My new teammates seemed impressed. But then I tried to beat out an infield grounder. That’s when I knew retirement was eminent.
Oliver Wendell Holmes said, “Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.” But I don’t think Mr. Holmes ever pulled a hip-flexor muscle.
I was never the best athlete on the field or court, but I like to think I could keep up with those who were. I feel like my speed and hustle made up for anything I was lacking in power or height. And now, it’s time to retire. The legs just don’t move as quickly as my heart desires. Besides, five months later, my hip flexor still hurts.
I’m glad my career ended playing softball. It’s where I had the most fun and where I feel like I gave the fans their money’s worth. Plus, I’ve silenced all the critics who saw me as an undeveloped kindergartner.
I’m going to miss the competition and the camaraderie. I’ll miss the down-the-line winners, the no-look passes, and stretching singles into doubles. I’m going to miss whiffle ball battles and the annual flag-football game at school.
I probably won’t be elected to any of the various Hall-of-Fames, but my lack of notoriety has allowed me live free of the attention and glamour that plagues famous professionals. And now, I think it’s time to pick up the one sport that I’ve avoided all these years: golf.
Once I buy some clubs and take a few lessons, I’m sure the U.S. Senior Open will be calling my name.
