Hall of Fame Numbers

One of the things I love about baseball is the central role that numbers play. They tell their own story: .300 is a good hitter; 3.00 is a good pitcher. Yet .300, 30 HR, 100 RBI means something entirely different to a baseball fan than .300, 5 HR, 40 SB. One is a power hitter, probably a big star; the other one is more of a speedy guy, probably leads off and scores a lot of runs. Even uniform numbers tell a story -- in fact, you can find an entire set of those stories at www.mbtn.net, which is a website that details every player who ever played for the Mets in order of his uniform number.

One of the most famous numbers in baseball is 44, which has been worn by such legends as Hank Aaron, Willie McCovey, and Reggie Jackson. So obviously I am in good company, since I myself am also now 44. This is not, regrettably, my uniform number but instead the one which, God willing, will keep increasing every year. Next year I make the switch from slugging to pitching -- Tug McGraw and Pedro Martinez are the two most famous 45s in Mets history, at least.

I have been in many ways struggling with this new piece of my identity... not specifically being 44; birthdays are not generally a huge crisis for me. Although I can't say I'm eager to hit a half-century. It's more the mindset behind my favorite (alleged) Satchel Paige quote, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?"

At one point I would've said early 30s -- not to mention that I could easily pass for that. Hey, some days I probably would've said 19.

The other night my daughter asked me, "Daddy, why is your hair getting all gray?" I told her that happens when people get older, and since I'm only half-old, I'm only half-gray. Not long after that, my son had the kindness to point out that I have "a little hole in my hair". And it probably goes without saying my waist is a little thicker and my knees are a little stiffer (although that's the beauty of BlogWorld: absolutely nothing goes without saying).

Still, I'm driving at something a little less tangible. I am at 44 very likely more than halfway through my days, and I still can't quite get it through my head that I'm a grownup. I have two small children who depend on me for support, both financial and emotional, and who I'm supposed to be helping shape into mature individuals. I, or we, own two cars and a camp and a house full of stuff. I'm supposed to be saving for retirement, for heaven's sake. That's a real eye-opener for me, considering that for all intents & purposes I didn't even have a career less than 10 years ago.

I have priorities and responsibilities and decisions to make; and sure, I share all that with my wife -- but in some ways that makes it worse. We have to work together as mature adults in tandem, when much of the time I'd rather either

• do whatever I want, unilaterally, and let everyone else shift for themselves, or
• let her make all the decisions while I shuck the responsibility.

Seems like only yesterday I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating chips, drinking iced tea, reading The Sporting News AND watching the Three Stooges (this is how I learned to multitask). The biggest thing I had to worry about was studying for my Chem test.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not Mourning My Lost Youth, not exactly anyway. We all have responsibilities that are at least sorta heavy, and I cope with mine OK, I think. I just can't help but feel like it would all go smoother if I really felt like an adult, down deep inside -- sometimes it's more like I'm playing the 'daddy' part in a never-ending game of House.

As a (very late) Baby Boomer, I also got caught in a generational/perceptional switch. In my Dad's day, grown-up men put on a suit and a skinny tie and a hat and went off to their serious adult jobs; I'm from the generation that wears jeans to work, and listens to rock 'n' roll, and spends money like they don't quite understand it comes in finite amounts. Somehow not quite so serious, not quite so adult.

I guess this probably sounds like the standard-issue Midlife Crisis, and that soon I'll be buying a red convertible and wearing my hat backwards... or maybe taking off on a cross-country journey to Find Myself. Maybe it is, or maybe it's a side-effect of all the steroids. Maybe it's just living in a culture that tends to glorify non-grownup behavior. In any case, I'm hoping I get it sorted out soon because I think it'll be hard to find an old-folks' home that has unlimited potato chips and iced tea available for afternoon snacks.