The Last Time
Celebrity culture has long been a mystery to me. It amuses me that FDR loved to surround himself with gossipmongers, while Eleanor Roosevelt could hardly bring herself to discuss any frivolity. I often find myself in the Eleanor camp—feeling a bit of angst when it comes to the world of schmoozing. So often, the conversation subjects focus on pop culture, which seldom holds my attention. The idea of discussing famous people with awe or even mere attention strikes me as strange, even though I know that not doing so places me somewhere between odd and curmudgeonly.
So it surprised me how affected I have been by the pending retirement of Albert Pujols, Yadier Molina, and (maybe) Adam Wainwright. I knew I wanted to see them play one more time, so it was with excitement that I bought playoff tickets to share October baseball with my family. Normally, this adventure would have been an unhindered time of fun, win or lose. Yet I felt far more sadness than expected as the Saturday game drew near and then even more as the game slipped away Saturday night. It culminated with a closeup shot of Pujols as he left first base for a pinch-runner in the bottom of the eighth. The camera closed in on Albert, who seemed to be welling up with emotion, and I found myself doing the same.
Going into the series, it was easy to assess the Cardinals soberly. Compared to the other contenders, a World Series run was unlikely. Further, I have seen enough victories and moments of triumph for the Cardinals that it would be greedy to expect more. Between my tempered expectations and lack of mysticism toward celebrities, it surprised me that I felt such deep sadness over the retirements of three strangers. But once it was all over, I found a bit more clarity on why the ending hit me so hard.
In Father John Misty’s song, “Goodbye, Mr. Blue,” he includes some lovely and descriptive lyrics that culminate with the following lines:
“When the last time was our last time,
Should've told you that the last time comes too soon.”
As we drove home with my kids asleep in the backseat, I thought about this song, and I thought about discussing sports with my dad years ago. I remember him commenting on how surreal it was to see the athletes he once cheered for retiring to take on the role of coaches and announcers. Despite their relative youth, bodies and reflexes seldom last long in professional sports. Even the best inevitably succumb to age.
This reality is true for Pujols, Molina, and Wainwright, even though all three have mustered some brilliant performances this season. And it is similarly true for each of us, which seems to be at the heart of why the retirement of three 40-somethings hit me so hard. Like my dad, this October signals the final shift away from watching athletes who are my own age. As the song goes, “the last time comes too soon.”
Despite being someone who never had much for athleticism, nor any chance of playing professional sports, my sadness likely has something to do with aging. I was sixteen by the time my dad reached my current age, and I cannot help but wonder how well I will run and play sports with my boy once another decade has passed. Watching Pujols and Yadi lumber around the bases makes me think it will be an effort to stay a step ahead of my son.
When I held Andrew in my arms over the weekend and looked back at my kids sleeping after the game, I didn’t just wonder about the sports and activities with my kids. I also wondered what they would see of me in my character and virtues. While I have long maintained a growth mindset—physically, mentally, and spiritually—I am well aware that I’m deep in the stages of imprinting who I am upon my children, and I have likely lived more than half my life.
Over the past few months, I have been thinking about virtues—those that I desire for myself and those that society values. My shortlist of traits that I want to embody include wisdom, humility, and kindness. None of these come naturally, and I know how often I fail to represent any of these virtues. Yet while my 40-something status serves as a signal that my body is no longer at its peak, there is no need to resign myself to a decline in character. The ability to build virtues is something that can continue long after the body falters, and it is my hope that each of my kids will see mindful growth, even if I am less able to run, jump, and play with the same vim and vigor of youth.
“The last time comes too soon” can be a powerful reminder. It can prompt melancholy when thinking about goodbyes: goodbyes to people we’ve admired from afar or loved ones who are close. We say goodbye to the stages our children reach and leave behind—the milestones that move them a bit closer to independent lives of their own. We have goodbyes that are expected and goodbyes that are surprising, all of which may carry sadness.
But thinking about the last time can also remind us to strive for what we can be with the time that we have. 2 Peter 1 puts it like this: “Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue, and virtue with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with steadfastness, and steadfastness with godliness, and godliness with brotherly affection, and brotherly affection with love.” While my children may not remember me by my athletic feats, it is my hope that the virtues I am pursuing will long be vivid in their minds. And that’s worth far more than any celebrity status.
