I’ll play. Sure, I’ll play. I haven’t played since I was thirteen, I laugh. I won’t be very good.
Look at me! I’m fast! Look, I just got the ball away from that good player. Look, I’m on a breakaway! Amazing! Oh, I missed the shot. I’ll get it next time.
I do not get it next time. I’m old. I slow down quickly. Soon I’m hunched over, hands on my knees, breathing deeply with a bit of wheeze in my throat. They play on. I hold up my hand to wave off any concern. They are not concerned.
But, in the end, it’s good times. I run and sweat. I sprint and wheeze. My sides hurt; I tell an opposing player to stop being so fast. He is very fast: like lightning. It’s competitive—and I want to play well—but no one keeps score.
Just one part of a really nice day.