My Mid Life Crisis Pre Game Show

In past issues, a few of the Barstool writers have dealt with the issue of getting older.  Even though I’ve been getting older longer than the rest of these guys, I’ve avoided the topic like it was the third rail.  Until now.

I don’t consider myself old by any stretch.  I’m not Grandpa Simpson sitting around the Retirement Castle waxing nostalgic about how we used to hang the Irish.  Demographically, I’m stuck in a narrow slice of the population between the Baby Boomers and the Gen X-ers that’s defined by the fact that we know every Brady Bunch episode by heart. No kidding, I’ve heard social scientists call us the “Baby Bunchers“.

I’ve always described my age this way: I’m old enough to remember when they didn’t sell water in stores, and MTV showed music videos 24 hours a day.  That’s not really a lot to hang my hat on if I intend to be one of those “things were way better back in my day” guys.

And that’s a problem.  I’ve got two kids, and I have no idea how to raise them.  My parents brought me up to appreciate how hard they had it.  My whole childhood was them telling me stories about my ancestors who survived the Potato Famine; how my grandfather hauled dead bodies around for the City of Boston; how my mother begged in the streets during the Depression; how my dad fought the Nazis. 

My youth was the ‘80s.  What the hell am I supposed to tell my kids?
Me: “Those were dark times, my friend!  DARK TIMES!!!”
Them: “Dad?  Are you still talking about when Van Halen broke up?”
Me: “You’re goddamned right I am!!! We were scared…I  messed my parachute pants…”
Somehow it doesn’t have the same effect.

Here’s what I’ve figured out that might be helpful to the 20- and 30-something people of Planet Barstool:  Getting older doesn’t hit you all at once.  You don’t leave a club on Saturday night after macking on hot coeds all night only to wake up Sunday morning with a comb over, wearing black socks and sandals, heading to Foxwoods in a Lincoln Town Car.

Nor does life slip by you gradually.  It kind of comes in fits and starts.  Every so often you pass another mile post that tells you you’re older than you were when you got up this morning.

There’s the first time, usually high school, when you realize you won’t ever be a pro athlete.  Next comes the day when you see guys your own age in the Major Leagues.  Then someone describes one of those guys as “a veteran.” After a while they start passing the legends of the game on the all time lists.  Another big moment is the first time a guy you remember watching as a rookie announces his retirement.  For me, I’m not yet at the point where no one my age is playing (thank you, steroids!), but right now in Major League Baseball there are about 150 guys whose fathers played when I was a kid.

I had one such moment last week at Cape Cod League game.  The trivia question was “In 1986, how did Dwight Evans make baseball history?”  Not only did I know the answer (He homered on the first pitch of the season), I remember exactly where I was when he did it (cutting classes, watching the game from the student lounge).  Then it hit me that for me, this was a vivid memory, but half the guys on the field hadn’t been born when it happened.

The day before, I had another of those moments when you realize you just reached one of life’s touchstones.  I was halfway to the Cape, cruising along Route 3.  I looked out the window to check out the girl in the car next to me like I’d done a million times before.  And there, in her passenger side window, I saw my reflection.  Looking back at me was a guy driving a mini van, with his wife napping beside him and two kids in the back seat watching “Bionicles: The Movie” for the tenth time.  And the guy I saw looked like if he didn’t play his cards right, in about six months time he’d find himself wearing a fishing hat, smoking a pipe and calling his wife “Mother.”

Ironically, the first time I had that moment Pete Manzo writes about, when you realize you’ve gotten too old for a particular bar, was also down the Cape.  My buddy Gerry and I were at a happy hour when a girl came up to him and said “Um…aren’t you a little old to be hanging out in here?”  We were both 26.

After that the changes were subtle.  In the same way that ballplayers say their problem isn’t slowing down, it just gets harder to rebound from injuries, you find that you can drink just as much as you used to, but the hangovers are nastier.  Soon you find yourself preferring dive-y bars over clubs; the kind with Pabst Blue Ribbon signs that are named after a guy, like “Dewey’s” or “Murph’s.”  The kind of place that sells Slim Jims and pickled eggs behind the bar.

Next you find yourself doing things your dad and uncles used to.  Like when you arrive some place, you spend the first half hour talking about HOW you got there.  “Did you stay on Route 2, or did you take the Pike?”  “Oh, the Pike; that cuts out all the lights on 2...”

Another milestone for me was realizing I was now one Movie Generation old.  That was the first time I took my kids to see a remake of a movie I saw when I was a kid.  Now they’re everywhere.  “Herbie the Love Bug” “Bad News Bears” “Yours, Mine & Ours” “Cheaper by the Dozen” or any of those movies with an impossibly big family where a dog knocks all the food off a huge banquet table and hilarity is supposed to ensue. For all of them, I’ve seen the original and the 2.0.

Next comes what I call the “Who?” stage.  I’m happy to report I haven’t reached this one yet.  That’s the first time you see the Billboard Chart and realize you have never listened to a single one of those songs.  Then it’s a short hop to the moment when you’ve never heard of any of the people who sing those songs. 

I’m not sure what the next step in the aging process will be for me.  Maybe I won’t be able to talk about the NBA without mentioning Larry Bird.  Or when I write, every pop culture reference will be painfully out of date, like the writers at the Globe.  There’ll probably be a hugely popular TV show, or a smoking hot actress that I’ve never heard of.  At some point, I’ll have to start watching “Chronicle.”  Maybe switch to really big glasses or start coloring my hair. 

Hopefully though, writing about how old you’re getting isn’t a sign that you’ve gotten old.