I realized something while out walking early this morning. It has, of course, been 32 years since the Dodgers won the World Series, and I’m 32 years younger than my father.
Well, 32 years and six months, so that I’m not numerically the same age now as he was in October 1988, but you get the idea.
I don’t feel my age very often, because I honestly don’t feel that different now than I felt X number of years ago. One reason is immaturity. I don’t feel like I have the emotional assurance of a proper 52-year-old. I haven’t come to terms with life’s realities in the way I think I expected to. I really don’t know how much I’ve grown.
And at the same time, I think at age 20, I felt older than my age in some ways. I had adult concerns about my life. I thought of myself as mature for my age, driven, thoughtful. I worried about things I didn’t really need to worry about. I could have relaxed a hell of a lot more in 1988.
When I think about how I felt about my Dad 32 years ago, it’s hard for me to believe that I’m the same age now as he was then. But I guess that’s nothing new. How can you not be amazed that such massive chunks of life passing by?
What’s wild about what happened last night is that in the moment that the Dodgers won the World Series, I really did feel 20 again. Not like a 52-year-old questioning whether he had grown over the past 32 years, but a true 20. Winning the World Series after all this time made me feel truly, deeply young.
Soon enough, I’ll go back to being a middle-aged man of contradictions, but it’s nice right now, at least as a baseball fan, to feel reborn.
It’s crazy to wonder what the next 32 years will bring. If I’m lucky, I’ll be the age my father is now: 85 (almost). It’s a different kind of leap. It’s comprehensible and incomprehensible all at once.