An athletic career, like the human body in general, is subject to a law of diminishing returns. At some point the bargain with fate turns and a fuse is lit. Each step comes slower than the last. Each minute more draining than the preceding. Each behavior drawing from the reserve tank, drip by drip, until the whole assembly overheats and the system surrenders to a final drift. A short respite before a long-avoided reality presents itself:
You might have had it once, but it’s long gone.
The downturn is inescapable, save for those curlers and the Ryan Giggs of the world. No matter the amount of training or conditioning, or the number of hours registered at the gym, the human body eventually gives way to a natural process of deterioration. Some athletes recognize the signs, and make a noble exit before atrophy sets in. A far larger number ignore the sign posts and grind their way through a number of uninspired seasons before finally throwing in the towel.
It’s less apparent with the utility players, but becomes painfully obvious with their elite counterparts. When high-level performance becomes a norm, an expected behavior, anything less than world-class is viewed as unacceptable. Think back to Jordan with the Wizards, Unitas with the Charges, Ricky Henderson with the San Diego Sea ‘Dawgs,’ or the person who brought prompted this article, Cuauhtemoc Blanco, currently disintegrating in Mexico’s Second Division.1
For most of us, sports offers an escape from the doldrums of our daily lives. Whether or not we choose to acknowledge it, we all feel as though we’re part of something larger, members of an ongoing mythology with our own archetypes, heroes and villains. We have our own holy lands, typically haggard and worn, with visible remnants of past pilgramages. We even have our own pantheon of Gods, narcissistic like their primordial counterparts, each patron of some over-analyzed behavior, whether powerful left feet or well-placed crosses from the midfield line.
So when a deity proves to be mortal, people tend to grow upset.
In regards to Cuauhtemoc, one of the most revered Mexican players of the last two decades, the criticism has been especially harsh, if somewhat understandable. From stand-out performances for the Mexican National Team, to a respectable effort with Real Valladoid in La Liga, his recent performances for Sinaloa have been anything but glamorous. Heavy legs, lost control, misplaced passes, he’s anything but the quality player who delighted crowds with the Cuauhteminha during World Cup 98′. From pundits, journalists and fans, the abuse has been constant.
“He’s overweight.”
“He’s only there for a paycheck.”
“He’s done.”
All of these statements may be true, but what difference does it make? Unless you’re intimately concerned with the performance of Dorados de Sinaloa, what’s the point in complaining? Because his lowered performance upsets your twisted view of the sports world? Because he can’t perpetually be 27-years old?
The life of an athlete is one spent constantly training, refining, and maintaining. Each waking moment is dedicated to the profession. Beset by family, friends, responsibilities, and outside interests? Those can take a back seat. Athletes dedicate so much of themselves to their sport that they define themselves through their craft. When the skills that drove them to athletics begin to evaporate, they lose a sense of who they are. What’s left in the mirror’s reflection other than a shell of who they used to be?
Who am I to criticize a player who’s grown used to the locker room chatter and finds it difficult to adjust to a civilian lifestyle? If management finds they have a place on the roster for a grizzled veteran, that’s their decision. While I might think the roster spot could be put to a better use, there’s no sense in criticizing a player for experiencing the same aches and pains that plague the lives of “normal” people.
So before you launch into a tirade against the decline of your favorite athlete, whether it’s Thierry Henry potentially ruining his legacy by joining Arsenal, or Cuauhtemoc Blanco wasting away in Sinaloa, give pause. Age is inescapable, even for the Gods.
With news of Fabio Capello’s departure from the England post yesterday came the expected flood of “experts” speculating on potential replacements based …
Calling it Quits
- Maxi Rodriguez
An athletic career, like the human body in general, is subject to a law of diminishing returns. At some point the bargain with fate turns and a fuse is lit. Each step comes slower than the last. Each minute more draining than the preceding. Each behavior drawing from the reserve tank, drip by drip, until the whole assembly overheats and the system surrenders to a final drift. A short respite before a long-avoided reality presents itself:
You might have had it once, but it’s long gone.
The downturn is inescapable, save for those curlers and the Ryan Giggs of the world. No matter the amount of training or conditioning, or the number of hours registered at the gym, the human body eventually gives way to a natural process of deterioration. Some athletes recognize the signs, and make a noble exit before atrophy sets in. A far larger number ignore the sign posts and grind their way through a number of uninspired seasons before finally throwing in the towel.
It’s less apparent with the utility players, but becomes painfully obvious with their elite counterparts. When high-level performance becomes a norm, an expected behavior, anything less than world-class is viewed as unacceptable. Think back to Jordan with the Wizards, Unitas with the Charges, Ricky Henderson with the San Diego Sea ‘Dawgs,’ or the person who brought prompted this article, Cuauhtemoc Blanco, currently disintegrating in Mexico’s Second Division.1
For most of us, sports offers an escape from the doldrums of our daily lives. Whether or not we choose to acknowledge it, we all feel as though we’re part of something larger, members of an ongoing mythology with our own archetypes, heroes and villains. We have our own holy lands, typically haggard and worn, with visible remnants of past pilgramages. We even have our own pantheon of Gods, narcissistic like their primordial counterparts, each patron of some over-analyzed behavior, whether powerful left feet or well-placed crosses from the midfield line.
So when a deity proves to be mortal, people tend to grow upset.
In regards to Cuauhtemoc, one of the most revered Mexican players of the last two decades, the criticism has been especially harsh, if somewhat understandable. From stand-out performances for the Mexican National Team, to a respectable effort with Real Valladoid in La Liga, his recent performances for Sinaloa have been anything but glamorous. Heavy legs, lost control, misplaced passes, he’s anything but the quality player who delighted crowds with the Cuauhteminha during World Cup 98′. From pundits, journalists and fans, the abuse has been constant.
“He’s overweight.”
“He’s only there for a paycheck.”
“He’s done.”
All of these statements may be true, but what difference does it make? Unless you’re intimately concerned with the performance of Dorados de Sinaloa, what’s the point in complaining? Because his lowered performance upsets your twisted view of the sports world? Because he can’t perpetually be 27-years old?
The life of an athlete is one spent constantly training, refining, and maintaining. Each waking moment is dedicated to the profession. Beset by family, friends, responsibilities, and outside interests? Those can take a back seat. Athletes dedicate so much of themselves to their sport that they define themselves through their craft. When the skills that drove them to athletics begin to evaporate, they lose a sense of who they are. What’s left in the mirror’s reflection other than a shell of who they used to be?
Who am I to criticize a player who’s grown used to the locker room chatter and finds it difficult to adjust to a civilian lifestyle? If management finds they have a place on the roster for a grizzled veteran, that’s their decision. While I might think the roster spot could be put to a better use, there’s no sense in criticizing a player for experiencing the same aches and pains that plague the lives of “normal” people.
So before you launch into a tirade against the decline of your favorite athlete, whether it’s Thierry Henry potentially ruining his legacy by joining Arsenal, or Cuauhtemoc Blanco wasting away in Sinaloa, give pause. Age is inescapable, even for the Gods.