"Sure. We need somebody to be our waterboy." That was the
texted message I received back from Jared after I had inquired about
joining his summer lacrosse team a season ago. Ten years earlier, when I
was Jared's high school JV coach, a similar derogatory comment would
have cost him about a thousand windsprints and possibly a choked
larynx. But now, Jared was a recent college All-American and the coach
of the Wilbraham Zebras lacrosse team. I was a 47 year old once-upon-a-time decent player, but now dependent upon a knee brace, ankle tape, and mega-doses of
Advil and Icy-Hot just to survive a few shifts per game.
Plus, for the first time in 30 years, I was a rookie.
