Scott Schultz sschultz@media.ucla.edu
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By Scott Schultz
sschultz@media.ucla.edu
Sometimes when you reach your 30s, you look back on your life
and wish you could change your past.
I’m not talking about trivial moments, like the time I cut
Shane Battier from my fantasy league roster. I’m talking
about the serious life decisions that propel you from youth to
adulthood.
But it is a rare event, when you can actually change your future
by doggedly clinging to your past.
I saw Disney’s “The Rookie” ““ the movie
about Jim Morris, the 35-year-old rookie pitcher who in 2000, went
from chemistry teacher to Major Leaguer and for a brief moment
national media feel-good story. Baseball is the one team sport that
lends itself to film, but this one touches a special chord, because
it involves an old guy who reaches the highest level of a young
man’s game.
Morris’ story is like a bookend to St. Louis Rams
quarterback Kurt Warner’s, only he didn’t win an MVP or
a championship. And unlike Warner, he wasn’t even that good
when he finally made it to the show. But at least he made it, and
that’s encouraging for all 30-somethings like me, who are
boys at heart.
Still, it’s hard not to appreciate a true story when it
involves an ordinary, hard-working, 30-something guy who goes from
worrying about making ends meet with a crazy dream of suspended
maturity that refuses to dissolve, and then he actually
accomplishes his goal. Of course, he had to maintain his discipline
of routine, protesting the natural order of aging in order to
return to the professional level.
When you reach your 30s, the time comes where you have to face
the fact that where athletic dreams are concerned, your window of
opportunity swiftly closes. Some people accept it with grace, while
others, like two-time heavyweight boxing champion George Foreman,
follow their dream into their 40s.
I have a friend named Jim who I used to work with giving out
television show tickets to tourists in front of the Chinese
Theater. Jim is in his 30s and he still dreams of being a
professional athlete. He wanted to try out for the XFL as a
quarterback, even though he was 35 years old and had never played
organized football. He also was only six months removed from a
spinal fusion, but he refused to listen to his friends and family,
because he knew he could play.
Unfortunately, Jim overslept the public tryout, and before he
could get his second shot at the big time the XFL folded. However,
luckily for Jim, he discovered a nearby professional extreme
wrestling league, and I’m confident that someday soon we will
see Jim’s body slammed through tables and beaten over the
head with trash can lids and metal chairs to the
“ooohs” and “aaahs” of children everywhere.
But you’ve got to admire his refusal to accept his physical
limitations.
When I transferred to UCLA at age 32, I was torn between two
goals. I wanted to be Daily Bruin sports editor or captain of the
UCLA ultimate frisbee club team by my senior year.
Sometimes I’m still torn by the decision I made. I look
back and I ask myself, “What if? What if I went the path of
the disc?”
I then convince myself, that the team would likely have needed a
tall, lanky slow 33-year old lefty. So I call one of my
30-something friends and schedule a visit to a park on a Saturday
morning to fling disc.
Then I pull a hammy, running after the bus, and realize I would
probably end up on crutches.
And besides, my protégés at the Daily Bruin, like
Dylan Hernandez, Jeff Agase and the Karon Brothers ““ I refuse
to accept responsibility for Greg Schain ““ would be lost
without me.
Last spring, after covering the swimming and diving team, and
after following a gymnast who ran in the Los Angeles Marathon, I
decided that I would complete a triathlon.
I began by running the perimeter, and I knew the biking
wouldn’t be a problem, because I had been biking from
Hollywood during the fall quarter. After a season of watching the
swimmers gliding on top of the water, I figured it couldn’t
be that hard to swim a mile. After all, I run a lot farther than
that.
I wanted to start “slow,” so I decided to swim 10
laps at Sunset Rec, which is equal to half a mile.
After one lap, at what was probably a snail’s pace, I was
ready to stop. After two laps, I had a cramp in my right calf. I
soldiered on. After four laps, I had cramps in both legs and my
lower vertebrae. After eight laps, I had lost all feeling below my
shoulders and had to rely on my right arm and my neck to finish the
job.
In a mixture of desperation and resourcefulness, I developed a
mutant hybrid of side and backstrokes. Against all odds and logic,
I avoided drowning and completed my goal in the pool. But I quickly
forgot about my triathlon goal until three in the morning
yesterday. I’m sure I’ll get that done when I find some
free time.
So now, after seeing to “The Rookie,” I’m
going to tune-up my bicycle and find myself a triathlon. Only,
I’m going to select one that has categories for running,
biking and frisbee toss.