“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 I am outdated.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.
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