Geriatric Olympics
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Observations on a sport club for the more mature.
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I spent my thirties working hard and worrying: I was ambitious so I was trying to prove myself as good as the forty-somethings in middle management.
My forties were even worse: not only did I have my sights on the fifty-somethings at the top, I had to watch my back where the presumptuous thirty-somethings were trading dangerously close to my heels.
My fifties were rather different: now everyone was pressing uncomfortably close behind and I was having to laugh off the signs of ageing that were becoming ever more obvious; I was working harder than ever and worrying even more – after all, I knew just what I had to lose if I relaxed for an instant.
The only bright spot in my fifties was, that when I looked ahead, I could see gently relaxing retirement beckoning me. I was not entirely sure what retirement would entail and I tended to swing from an Arabian Nights paradise of houris and sweetmeats to a prosaic sedentary life in front of the TV with a little desultory gardening to relieve the boredom.
A number of senior staff died within months of retiring so I began to take stock. I thought that they probably had too little to do after a lifetime of making important decisions affecting the lives of others. My plan was to identify things I really wanted to try but did not have time for. Writing was one, stamp collecting and the hoary old hunt for ancestors also featured. The only mistake I made was in thinking I would be so decrepit that anything more energetic than a stroll to the pub would not be possible.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Observations on a sport club for the more mature.
_____________________________________________________________________
I spent my thirties working hard and worrying: I was ambitious so I was trying to prove myself as good as the forty-somethings in middle management.
My forties were even worse: not only did I have my sights on the fifty-somethings at the top, I had to watch my back where the presumptuous thirty-somethings were trading dangerously close to my heels.
My fifties were rather different: now everyone was pressing uncomfortably close behind and I was having to laugh off the signs of ageing that were becoming ever more obvious; I was working harder than ever and worrying even more – after all, I knew just what I had to lose if I relaxed for an instant.
The only bright spot in my fifties was, that when I looked ahead, I could see gently relaxing retirement beckoning me. I was not entirely sure what retirement would entail and I tended to swing from an Arabian Nights paradise of houris and sweetmeats to a prosaic sedentary life in front of the TV with a little desultory gardening to relieve the boredom.
A number of senior staff died within months of retiring so I began to take stock. I thought that they probably had too little to do after a lifetime of making important decisions affecting the lives of others. My plan was to identify things I really wanted to try but did not have time for. Writing was one, stamp collecting and the hoary old hunt for ancestors also featured. The only mistake I made was in thinking I would be so decrepit that anything more energetic than a stroll to the pub would not be possible.
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The sixth age, says Shakespeare, shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again to childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. |
I dare say the Bard is right but that does not mean that we will accept it gracefully. Nor does it mean that, after a lifetime of striving and worrying, we will stop when we reach our sixties and seventies.
Our local council set up a sports club for the over forty-fives. The title is something of a kindness: since the meetings are held during the working day, almost all of the participants are comfortably into the sixth age.
Twice a week we have a choice of carpet bowls, new age kurling, table tennis or badminton in a two hour session. Half way through we stop to socialise over a cup of tea and a biscuit.
We are, of course, a self-selecting group, turning up for reasons that seem good to us. One man is recovered from a triple by-pass and another from a stroke, but most of us are simply trying to stave off what the advert calls 'visible signs of ageing'.
So what happens when you get twenty or so gentle old people together in a sports hall? The answer is that you get fierce competition!
The carpet bowlers may have bad backs, dodgy knees and replacement hips but they take their game very seriously. I have seen fights break out over the number of bowls to be thrown by each player, while it is commonplace for competitors to risk hours of agony by kneeling down to measure the distance of bowl from jack!
New age kurling involves sliding castored discs towards a target: nearest to the centre wins. Knocking an opponent’s disc into the next county is part of the strategy for a successful game. You should hear the sugary insincerity with which people apologise for wrecking someone else's game. Scoring is meticulous so that bragging rights are established at the tea interval.
Those games seem positively benign compared to what happens on and off the badminton courts. We may not move as fast as we once did and our reflexes may have slowed but our competitive instincts are still totally intact. Cutting remarks, that could be naively interpreted as supportive, establish the pecking order.
The best players make sure you know it and they cheerfully patronise the rest of us. I am rated in the second group: “At least you know the rules”, as one of the elite group told me with a sympathetic smile!
We are every bit as keen to do well as any youngster aspiring to Olympic glory. After all we have a great deal more at stake than a gold-plated medal: we are fighting hard to delay the onset of:
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Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. |
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.