I was deep in left field and the ball was hit short, not far behind second base. I sprinted, knowing two things with great certainty: I definitely wasn’t going to catch the ball, and I was definitely going down.
So, I at least tried to control the fall.
The grass was still moist from the overnight rains and I was chugging. I threw my glove hand out in a weak attempt to catch the pop up and then I rolled over my right shoulder, you know, rather than land on my face.
It immediately hurt – I’m 225 pounds, hitting solid February ground, and it was about four months since I had done anything athletic.
I got up, brushed myself off, and went back to shagging fly balls. It was the first day of practice for the 2025 season. No harm done. I eventually threw batting practice for an hour or so, and took some swings.
By the time I was home in my living room a few hours later, I had a catch in my breath. I assumed it was a bruised or broken rib. Either way, not much I could do about it.
Michelle got tired of hearing me gasp and made me go to the emergency room. They ran me through all the tests – EKG, X-rays, etc. The doctor told me that a person over 50 who has a heart incident has to get everything checked out.
A heart incident? I fell, I said. But the doc said that the breathing issues could have been triggered by other stuff, or could lead to other stuff.
She let me go home about four hours later, with orders to take it easy for a few weeks.
I woke up the next day wicked sore, and short of breath.
I thought my baseball career was over.
It’s a weird thing to realize you may be too old to do something. Like, it really snuck up on me.
I’d been Peter Panning for years, especially during my 40s, when I was running the music magazine. In my mag era, I was out all night, several nights per week, while also teaching hundreds of students three-semesters-per-year, doing admin work on campus, publishing the quarterly print edition of the magazine plus all the daily posts and socials, playing baseball on weekends, helping out my grandfather as much as possible and taking care of my beloved pup every day.
Somewhere along the way, doing so much started feeling rather exhausting. Was it while I was in Japan? Or when I was doing my doctoral dissertation? Maybe after the birth of my son? Or when I took my current gig it Columbia?
I don’t know. But I’ve now been in my current role for three years and I’ve never felt older. Sometimes when I see pictures of myself, I wonder, “Who is that fat old fucker?”
Over the past two years, I’ve actually had a few incidents when I thought, “This is it. Time to be a responsible adult. You’re too old to be a man child.”
I’ve already retired from baseball a half dozen times. After I fell last year, a few weeks before I turned 54, I just assumed I’d never take the mound again.
But I was back on the field the next week, refusing to give up the dream.
I had the best season of my life last year. I was officially 6-0 in the regular season, with a 2 point something ERA, I think. Scoring in the league is pretty sketchy – much like the umpiring, the league management and most of the playing, so I was probably more like 8-2, with a 3 something ERA. Regardless, I struck out a lot of people, most of whom were half my age.
This year, I’m 4-0 with a 3 something ERA, I think.
I’m pitching better than I ever have in my life. It seems to have taken me about 45 years to learn how to actually pitch. But it has been an absolute blast to be on the bump every weekend, usually with my kid behind the fence watching.
One of my teammates graduated from high school in the middle of the season. I graduated from high school 37 years ago. In theory, I could be that kid’s grandfather.
A day or two after the Columbia graduation in May, a freshly minted alum came to my office to chat before she bounced out of New York. She had been in my spring class and was an excellent student.
At some point, I started coughing uncontrollably for no reason. Like, I couldn’t stop. I felt phlegm fly out of my mouth but I didn’t see where it went.
I found the blob of mucus in my plaid shirt after the student left.
I mean, what the fuck? Like, what is happening to me?
A few days after graduation, I started having some pretty wicked headaches. That lasted almost a month.
I attributed it to back pain that I had been denying for months. I had, probably, the worst professional career of my life this last academic year and I assumed that I was now coming back to reality and dealing with all the pent up stress. I have no idea.
Even now, as I write, I’m dealing with lingering sciatica (self-diagnosed), with a tingling sensation in one of my toes.
Am I falling apart?
Almost as strange as it is to feel my age catching up to me is the fact that I’ve lived in New York for three years now.
I did not see this coming. I lived in the city for a year for journalism school – 30 years ago (!!!) – and thought that was just enough.
I returned to Philly after journalism school and led a pretty great life for the next 20 or so years. Every day, I became more and more intwined with Philadelphia thanks to the journalism I was doing and the sheer volume of students I was teaching. I used to walk around Philadelphia and people would drive by beeping and screaming my name. One time, I was walking my dog through Old City and the guy giving a Segway tour told his clients, “And over there is George Miller, the Temple University journalism professor, walking his dog, Mookie.”
Turns out that he had been one of my students.
I was all about Philly, its biggest champion. I lambasted people who fled Philly for other places – like London, Los Angeles and especially New York. In the digital age, you could be anywhere, I’d say to people. Why not make Philly your home? It’s cheap, the food is good, and once you get past the rough exteriors, Philly people are real gems.
I never imagined coming back to New York. Ever
But once I left Philadelphia for Japan in 2018, I started feeling out of sorts in Philly. We returned in 2021, at the tail end of the pandemic, and Philly had changed. It felt like an entirely different world.
Maybe it was just me? I had that kid now, you know? And no more Mookie. Maybe my relationship to the city changed?
On the day I interviewed for my gig at Columbia, I heard a dozen languages on campus, including Japanese. It seemed like a sign.
My kid loves it here. He knows his way around the Museum of Natural History and The Met. He’s been to a dozen Yankee games and knows where the Kid’s Clubhouse is at Yankee Stadium. Central Park is his backyard. He calls Columbia “Poppa Work” and he thinks he is the one true Big Man on Campus. It’s his place.
He’s randomly run into more of his friends around the city than I have, which is really wild.
This is is his home. My gosh. How did this happen?
And what happens now? I can retire with benefits in 7 years, and that sounds like a brilliant plan. But if this kid wants to stay here, I’m going to need to keep working another 13 years just to afford the cost of living here.
It’s hard to imagine that far into the future. All these recent ailments have me thinking life may be shorter than I was hoping.
The reality is that I’ve tried to live like every day could be the last for a long time now.
I rarely turn down offers to hang out, and I never say no when people ask me to do stuff. I usually offer to do more.
The result is that I burn through life. I interact with so many random people that I barely remember most. In the past few weeks alone, I did an online lecture for a Japanese university, I spoke to a high school group, I did several zoom sessions with incoming students, I’ve had numerous meetings with people who were referred to me, and I’ve responded sincerely to hundreds of emails from people I have never met in person.
All of that was on top of doing my regular job, and teaching my own class with 18 students – plus a rotating cast of characters I invited to sit in because they were interested in the course topic.
I try to give every single person my full attention, at all times, and I think I’m pretty good at making people feel seen and heard. I actually care, and I hope that shows.
I’ve been trying to be better about leaving school at a reasonable hour so that I can dedicate more time to my wife and child, the things that matter most to me.
My kid will attend an amazing kindergarten a few blocks away from campus starting in the fall. I’m so excited for him, and the life that he leads.
That kid. Man, he changes everything.
If I were falling apart before him and the clock ticked faster, it wouldn’t be a big deal. I’ve led a good life. If it ends sooner than later, whatever.
But that kid? He makes me want to live. And not just so I can be there for him. He actually makes me enjoy life more.
There are days when I wake up and I’m still exhausted. He’s usually in bed next to me, having arrived in the middle of the night when I was sound asleep. He’s usually pressed against me or, at least, his feet are draped over me.
On most mornings, he squirms, for about 15 seconds while still in his dreams, and then he farts. Sometimes right on me.
That sends him into fits of laughter. Like, it wakes him up and then he just starts giggling.
Then he makes faces at me and otherwise goofs off. I calm him down by watching funny puppy videos for a few minutes. We laugh hysterically., with my son’s head on my shoulder.
It’s the best thing ever.
G.W. Miller III 