Sidelines
H, the heartbreak of aching bones and burning thighs. Growing old is getting old
for this weekend warriorIt's Super Sunday, and I need a Super Rest.
It's the same old, familiar story, one told and retold at this time of year.
Every Super Bowl, something snaps in the male of the species. Full-grown and half decrepit men all suddenly think that they can go out and play football.
This, of course, is a silly idea. We can't play football. We look like a bunch of fools. But don't tell this to the salmon that swim upstream or the sheep that slam their heads into each other at full speed or Chevy Chase and Kevin Costner when they pick flop after flop. We can't help it. You've seen the nature shows. It's in the DNA.
And so it happened to us again, right on cue. Yesterday was Super Saturday, the Star-Bulletin grudge match against KITV.
It was billed as the clash of two great football teams at their peak, led by our leaders, Randy "the Legend" Cadiente and Robert "I hope you're having a pleasant evening" Kekaula.
But Kekaula did not show for the coin toss, which only exhibits his intelligence. Or perhaps he was miffed at all the fake front pages the hotheads in our office made "reporting" a Bulletin blowout. ("A despondent Kekaula quits sports, turns to weather," one headline blared.)
This is the kind of thinking men get, as the Super Bowl approaches. We all think we're Brett Favre.
This is how I got involved in this mess. After all, my body is a finely tuned athletic machine. Or at least it was the last time I checked, in 1992.
But surprisingly, it turns out that through the years I seem to have lost a few vital parts. Like muscles. Like knees.
(Oooh.) No, wait. There are the knees.
As with most silly things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Right now, somewhere, there are bighorn sheep with headaches saying, "What was I thinking?"
The low point came when I made a tremendous break on the ball, swooping in with a triumphant Robert Grant-like pass deflection. ... And the ball dribbled right into the waiting hands of Dan Meisenzahl for a KITV touchdown.
Luckily, this was nearly halftime, and at the break our coach, assistant sports editor Sjarif Goldstein, ambled over to address the troops and offer me a few private words of encouragement.
"You're fired," he said.
Yes, I could have played better. Maybe I needed a Rolobeard.
So I have learned my lesson. Just because it's Super Bowl time doesn't mean I should go flopping and flailing all over the place with the rest of these frail and infirm geezers. No more old cleats. No more cut-off shirts. No more complicated plays in the huddle. I mean it.
Until then, I have a year for these aches to fade.
Next year I'll turn down the invitation to join in the grudge match.
The thought of scoring touchdowns on the TV boys won't make me want to recapture my youth.
And fish won't swim.
Birds won't fly.
Chevy gets an Oscar for "Fletch 3 -- Fletch goes to Casablanca."
Kalani Simpson's column runs Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.
He can be reached at ksimpson@starbulletin.com