When there's little time left to rally

Playing a sport for 50 years is fulfilling. Giving it up can be heartbreaking.

- Rohit Brijnath

The open road always beckoned my friend. Not just the challenge but the small pleasures. The knotting of laces, the hamstring stretched, the first steps of a run. The body warms, a rhythm settles, a sheen of sweat rises. He's running, he feels, into the arms of freedom.

He's old school, my pal. No sunglasses, headphones, app-loaded watch. Just him and a splat of sneaker on tarmac. Then the lungs start to labour and the shirt turns sticky but his mind is long practised at pushing past curtains of pain. Satisfaction is a profound feeling.

But these days, at 62, sometimes his chest starts to tighten and common sense overcomes stubbornness. He slows down, sometimes he stops, alive to his body and his fears. It's smart and yet some days it must feel like defeat. As if his body is some brittle piece of pottery and the cracks are widening.

We were talking one recent evening, two crotchety men who played football together at 23 when we were immortal, now comparing the creaks in our body. I know what he's going through because I'm in the midst of making the most traumatic decision a decaying tennis player can make.

Giving up singles.

Recently I stumbled on a verse by the Scouse poet Roger McGough, who was once loaned a pair of Paul McCartney's trousers and wrote a poem on it. Anyway, this one was titled Let Me Die A Youngman's Death and part of it read:

"When I'm 73 and in constant good tumour may I be mown down at dawn by a bright red sports car on my way home from an all-night party"