Watching

It’s 7:50 on a cold Tuesday night. Cold enough to see every breath hang in the air. I’m sitting off to the side, watching the coaches train — moving like machines, steady and relentless.

Tonight I feel a little sorry for myself. Once again, I’m injured. This time it’s my lower back. Probably the result of fifty-five years of wear layered with long hours of training. I shouldn’t be surprised. Somehow, I always am.

This one needs rest. So I’m skipping basics this week, moving slowly, stretching deeply. I’ve been doing that for the past couple of days, and the body seems to be responding. Not quickly, but honestly.

I’m heading away for a few days on Friday. A break I’m looking forward to more than I want to admit.

For now, I sit here in the cold, watching bodies that aren’t mine do the work I can’t. Slowing down again, not by choice, but by necessity.

The coaches keep moving.
The breath keeps fogging the air.
And I stay where I am, waiting for my turn to re-enter.