Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Time Is Running Out

“I’m too old for this stuff.” –Danny Glover

For full effect, download “You Learn” by Alanis Morissette and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I reference a censored quote from one of my least favorite film franchises that has only been resurrected by one of my most favorite TV franchises basically due to the fact that I am now an old man. I am decrepit. I am outdated. I am someone whose priorities include getting new carpet and adjusting the interest rate on my car loan rather than catching up on the latest episodes of Vampire Diaries.

This is what I get for being born in the 80’s.

I know, that last phrase sounds way too old-fashioned.

With that being said, last night I resurrected teenage Brock and put him to work in the disgusting city of Mesquite, Nevada. A place that swallows beauty and vomits back human filth. Mesquite is not an appealing place to live, by any means. Well, neither is the entire state of Nevada, but Mesquite more specifically. It is the armpit of the Southwestern United States. It’s a place that makes my hometown of Roy look like heaven. It’s a place where G-Rated movies go out to die.

Now my reasoning for going down to this hellhole of a city was not a logical decision to make, not in the least bit. My motivation for an hour-long round trip to the middle of the desert and back was not for a romantic spa getaway, or to try my hand at the $3 Blackjack tables, or to test my luck on one of Nevada’s premier golf courses. No, my drive for that drive was something out of the ordinary, something completely outside of the box.

My reasoning for my trip 35 minutes south was to get beat up by a 6’8” black chick.

Yes, that statement is rather blunt and shocking, but what I mean was that my motivation to head down to the gulf of Mesquite was to play a few hours of pick-up basketball with a bunch of no-name faces I had never met before. And no, I’m not crazy. I’ve been tested.

It’s amusing how perspective changes over time. Things that mattered at one point in our lives don’t mean jack squat anymore once the clock has done its laps for about 12 years or so. If I were to go back roughly a decade and find Hawaiian-shirt wearing, lady-playing, Mt. Dew-addicted, basketball junkie 17-year old self, I might have to question the reason why he spent hours upon days upon weeks locked up in the Old Gym on campus working on his mid-range jump shot.

17-year old self: “It’s because I want to accomplish my goal of playing college basketball.”

Current self: “Ha! You’re white. That’s never gonna happen. Just let it go, my boy.”

But last night, 17-year old self was regurgitated on to the hardwood, playing balls to the wall, grabbing rebounds, throwing passes, and getting checked into the paint with a forearm to the head by a recently retired Amazonian starting center for Utah State University’s women’s basketball team. Two sprained joints later and a minor headache not relieved by the caffeine concoction I drooled over on the ride back to my house and I felt Danny Glover’s words of wisdom being put on repeat.

“I’m too old for this stuff.”


It’s funny how perspective changes isn’t it? Because at this point as the miles keep getting logged, I sure as Satan ain’t getting any younger.  

What do you think?

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