There is something severely humbling about getting older.

Not just in the mental sense, the learning and wisdom that comes along with adding years to one’s life.

No, for an athlete it is always about the physical. The aching bones that become harder to ignore each time you come off the field. The joints that crack with each movement when you get out of bed in the morning. The muscles that can no longer lift the amount of weight they used to.

And then eventually, the injury comes. It could be one, it could be many. But there is always that defining moment when you know your career has reached its peak, and now you’re on the slope tumbling down to retirement.

At the ripe old age of thirty, a year after I’d torn my meniscus, I knew that I was already halfway down that hill.

I circle my hip, warming my right leg up in the training facility that looks nothing like the one I inhabited for the last ten years. Because what also comes along with getting older, at least as a professional football player, is getting traded. It’s leaving the organization you’ve bled for, for years because they could sell you on the cheap to a team who could use a seasoned, even if he’s not one hundred percent, veteran.

I’m bitter, yes, but that’s the way of the league. Not that Charlotte isn’t nice; it’s warmer than Massachusetts. I attended college here, it’s sort of like coming home. It has a nice downtown and a good fan base, the apartment I was set up with isn’t half bad.

“How is the knee feeling?” Anthony, the trainer I’ve been working with since signing with the North Carolina Cheetahs, walks into the state of the art facility.

The best lifting equipment, lines of treadmills and bikes, weights, medicine balls, resistance bands … all in the bright warehouse painted in the team colors of maroon and gold. It looks similar to every other professional athletic center I’ve ever been in. In fact, this is the room I’ve spent the most time in since moving back to Charlotte two months ago. That’s kind of pathetic.

“Feeling loose, which is good. I think I’ll be good to go for practice this week.” We were a week out of the regular season, and I’d missed training camp.

After tearing the muscles in my knee halfway through last season, I’d elected to have the surgery and make the rough battle of a comeback. At thirty, many were counting me out. But I was going to prove those fucking talking heads wrong.

“Good, ’cause I’m going to push you to the limit today.” He smiles like he’ll enjoy my pain.

Which he probably will.

Anthony walks to the radio, tuning the Sirius to a heavy metal station that he knows will get my head in the right space.

“Hey, have you taken some time to learn the city yet?” He sits down next to the mat where I stretch out.

I repeat my physical therapy exercises, three reps before I attempt to work out. “Honestly, I’ve just been trying to get as healthy as possible to play.”

“I get that. But … you should get out for a little. Walk around, see how the fan base and the people here operate. Sometimes, it will give you even more motivation. Remember, football is as much of a mental game as it is a physical one.”

He was right, of course, but I hadn’t allowed myself to have a social life in years. The occasional drink with a teammate, a dinner with my brother when he came to town, the rare date … but that was about it. My life, for the last seven years, had been miserably lonely.

Anthony sees my hesitance. “Listen, I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy you a beer after I whoop your ass for the next hour.”

Warring with myself, I decide I kind of need the relaxation. “Okay, you’ve got a deal.”

* * *

Two hours later, the waitress sets our burgers down in front of us.

My mouth waters and I now believe Anthony when he tells me this tiny restaurant off Tryon Street has some of the best food in town. It’s been so long since I lived here, I have no idea what restaurants are good anymore. Everything has changed in the eight years I’ve been gone, including me.

I wash down my first beer, a hoppy IPA, before digging in.

“Shit, I needed this after the hell you unleashed on me today.”

He laughs. “For an old geezer in this league, you can surprisingly hold your own.”

I give him a stink eye. “Asshole. I’ll go toe to toe with any of these hot shots coming out of the draft.”

“I don’t doubt it. Honestly, I think you’ll be ready to play. That’s the recommendation I’m going to give Coach Bryant.”

He shouldn’t be telling me this, but I appreciate the openness. “Thanks, man. You don’t have to compromise yourself for me, but I know your word will go a long way with Coach.”

I hadn’t spent much time with Jason Bryant, the head coach I was playing under now, but he seemed like a stand-up guy. And like Anthony, he’d shot straight with me in each interaction we’d had so far. There was something to be said for being an older player. Since the coaches and staff were closer to your age than the cocky boys coming up from college, there was some kind of unspoken respect.

I lived and breathed football, it was my life. But sometimes, I wanted to shut down shoptalk. And right now, was one of those times. “So, you’ve been with the organization how long?”

He puts down his napkin, covered in barbecue sauce from his burger, and clears his throat. “About six years, and it’s a great place to be. The owners are great, coaches listen to us trainers, and they’re a no-nonsense club, so they don’t allow a lot of goons on the roster. My wife loves it here; our daughter just started kindergarten … it’s just a great city to live in.”

“I didn’t realize you were married.”

Anthony pulls a necklace out from under his shirt, a wedding band hanging in the middle. “Ten years, dude. I keep my ring here, don’t want the weights to scratch it. But, Lucy, that’s my wife, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

By the look in his eyes, I know he means it. I’ve seen two different emotions from people who are married; bliss or misery. Anthony is obviously in the former, and a little part of me burns with jealousy. I’ve never come close to that, but lord knows I spent years being too fucking selfish to even realize that I wanted something like what he had.

Something like what my parents had.

Anthony is talking, but the whooshing in my ears drowns him out. Sadness fills every pore, and even seven years later, it feels like someone has taken a stake to my heart each time I think about them.

Maybe I can finally find that. Maybe this move, although involuntary, will be good for me. Maybe Charlotte will bring a new beginning as my career hits its end.