The softball player ran hard around the bases, tagging third and heading for home. Just a few feet away, he stopped abruptly, crumbled into the dirt and grabbed his leg.
It looked like he tweaked his hamstring or twisted a knee. He yelled out in pain. A few players gathered around him. He ignored their concerns, jumped up and hobbled off the field.
“Walk it off!” a female fan in the bleachers yelled to him.
He tried, hopping on one leg to the dugout before plopping down on the bench in pain. I just happened to record a video of the play for a social media post about men’s softball leagues. My 42-year-old son is on a team, so I swung by on my bike to watch a recent game.
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Everything looked pretty typical — the familiar sound of a bat hitting a ball, guys shouting encouragement, and a lot of standing around between plays. I’ve watched sports games for longer than most of those players have been breathing.
But then I watched that player hit the ground rounding the bases. He instinctively did five push-ups as penance for his injury. The gesture was such a masculine thing to do, illustrating how most men, including me, feel or react to such situations in front of other guys.
I’ve sprained both of my ankles countless times playing sports. I’ve dislocated my finger playing football, popping it back into place before the next play. My shoulder has a torn rotator cuff. My wrists are arthritic from too much physical activity. And I’m facing knee replacement surgery due to decades of running, pounding, twisting and playing.
None of that matters when I’m competing in a sport. Any sport. Even tossing a Frisbee for hours like a dog on the beach. I’ll play fetch anytime.
I recently played two hours of pickleball with my son, niece and her husband. It was hot and humid. I was a sweaty mess. I played until exhaustion, limping to my car with an angry knee and joyous smile. It was so much fun. I can’t wait to do it again.
Trouble is, my body doesn’t have the physical capabilities it once had. My range is limited. My strength isn’t what it used to be. My talentless ability to out hustle people is hampered with every year by natural aging despite my innate competitiveness.
As I watched that softball player try to continue playing in that game, I felt his pain. And I understood his reaction to no longer being at the top of his game. It didn’t matter that he’s probably 20 or 30 years younger than me. Our egos are the same age.
The male ego is stubborn, stupid, fragile, resilient and necessary. It gets stuff done. It motivates us. It taunts us. It embarrasses us. Sometimes simultaneously.
“It was a sniper,” that player joked to teammates after falling to the ground.
“It was the gravel,” someone replied.
The body of every man eventually succumbs to getting older, sometimes as early as our 30s or 40s, the ages of many of those softball players. But our ego typically remains intact long after our physical capabilities fade. It’s interesting to watch this phenomenon in action. It’s humbling to experience it firsthand.
“I’m good, I’m good,” that player told his teammates before his next at-bat.
He defiantly limped to home plate, proudly smacked the ball, but couldn’t run to first base. That play alone illustrated the male ego, the triumph of machismo, and the frustration of aging.
Such attitudes have been ingrained in most men since our earliest memories as boys. We’ve been conditioned to be masculine by our family and more so by society.
Be aggressive. Be stoic. Be strong. Be dominant. Be competitive.
Don’t be weak. Don’t be a sissy. Don’t show vulnerability. Don’t reveal emotions that are not masculine.
Many of those mannish traits I’ve learned over the past half century are now labeled as “limiting” or “toxic masculinity.” It has prompted men to reconsider what it is to be a man. Are we supposed to be who we were conditioned to be? Or who we are now expected to be? Or maybe it’s an evolving social hybrid of both?
Crying is still considered a fault. Vulnerability is still deemed a weakness. Backing down from a fight is still shameful. Showing sensitivity is only acceptable in certain circumstances, and not in public. Not even if we’re in obvious pain, emotionally or physically.
“Throw some dirt on it!” one of the player’s teammates yelled to him after he hurt himself.
It wasn’t cruel or harsh. It was traditional masculinity in action. And it follows us every day from third to home.
