For Love of the Game: When Are We Too Old to Be Productive?

First Inning: The Wind-Up
I’ve always loved the movie For Love of the Game. Kevin Costner plays Billy Chapel, a pitcher throwing the game of his life while mentally sorting through everything that made him who he is, his wins, his heartbreaks, his regrets, his grace. Each inning is a flashback, a lesson, a reckoning.

It struck me recently that life feels a lot like that. We don’t always know what inning we’re in until the bullpen’s empty and the lights are starting to dim. So, in honor of Billy Chapel and my own version of extra innings, this blog’s my little game. No fastballs left, but maybe still a few good pitches—and a decent changeup.

Second Inning: Don’t Dream It’s Over
The other night, while watching The Voice, someone sang that old Crowded House song, “Don’t Dream It’s Over.” You know the one, soft, steady, defiant. And suddenly, I wasn’t listening to the TV anymore; I was listening to that voice in my head asking: Is it over for me?

Am I too old to dream of something new? Too old to start over? To still matter? Then that same song answered back, almost like a prayer: Don’t let them win.
And “them,” as I’ve learned, isn’t other people, it’s the quiet little fears that whisper, You’re done.

That whisper gets louder with age. But so does the stubbornness to shut it up. If Billy Chapel could pitch a perfect game at 40, then at 63, I can still write one, just with fewer fastballs and more faith.

Third Inning: The Deacon Dream
A few months back, I learned I’m technically too old to begin Deacon formation for the Archdiocese of St. Louis. By the time I’d finish, I’d hit the mandatory retirement age. That one hurt.

It wasn’t about the title. It was about service. I’ve always imagined spending my later years in quiet ministry, helping others find purpose and peace. But formation requires your spouse’s participation, and my wife—faithful in her own way—is what I lovingly call a “seasonal Catholic.” Advent? She’s all in. Lent? Hit or miss.

So, that door closed. But I take heart in my friends Wikam Akiki and Tony Simon, who became Marianist priests and serve with such joy. I’m not Lebanese, and I’m not ordained, but I still hope to serve in my own way. Maybe God just has me on a different kind of roster.

Fourth Inning: The Military Miss
In 1980, like every good son from a proud family line, I registered for the draft. My dad was in the Navy, his brothers served in the Army, and the Medellin men had their own soldiers, too. But by 1997, my eligibility quietly expired. I never served.

And truth be told, that’s always left a small hole in me. I deeply admire the men and women who gave their youth to protect ours. People like Pat Tillman remind me that sometimes service comes at a high cost.

For me, service took another shape. I’ve spent my life teaching, standing in front of students, helping them navigate adolescence, injustice, and algebra. No medals, no salutes, but still, a mission. Sometimes I think the classroom is the front line. And that’s okay.

Fifth Inning: The Quarterback Question
Tom Brady. Aaron Rodgers. Joe Flacco. All north of 40. All told to “hang it up.”

And yet, there they are, still throwing, still leading, still proving the critics wrong. In 2025, Rodgers and Flacco even went head-to-head in what fans called The Battle of the Uncs. (You know you’re old when your nickname sounds like a family reunion.)

But I get it. Brady once said he kept playing not for glory, but because he didn’t want to let his teammates down. That one line stuck with me.  Sometimes, we keep showing up not because it’s easy or glamorous, but because people still count on us. Teammates, students, family, community. That’s reason enough to stay in the game.

Sixth Inning: Cultural Crossroads
Throughout history, societies have struggled with determining the best course of action for their elders. In Sparta, a council of elders, known as the Gerousia, held absolute power. In Athens, older folks might as well have been invisible.

Native American tribes often revered their elders as storytellers and keepers of wisdom, but when times got hard, survival sometimes forced cruel tradeoffs.

The pattern repeats: reverence and rejection, honor and invisibility. Humanity has always been torn between valuing wisdom and worshiping youth.

Maybe our task now, those of us in the later innings, is to remind the world that experience isn’t expired. It’s earned.

Seventh Inning: The Classroom Front Line
I’ve never worn combat boots, but I’ve survived cafeteria duty. Teaching is its own kind of battle: against apathy, against systems that forget humanity, and against the daily chaos that only middle schoolers can conjure.

But it’s also sacred work. Watching a student find their voice, seeing a lightbulb go off, or hearing them say, “You believed in me”, those are victories that outlast grades or paychecks. Maybe that’s how I’ve served my country, not in camouflage, but in chalk dust and compassion.

Eighth Inning: Redefining Productivity
We’ve been sold this idea that productivity means speed, hustle, efficiency; life’s one big spreadsheet (remember my blog about analytics?)

But what if, in the later innings, productivity is something quieter? What if it’s about mentoring instead of managing? Storytelling instead of sprinting? What if it’s about meaning instead of metrics? Because maybe the best part of the game isn’t when you’re scoring runs, it’s when you’re coaching the next player to swing.

Ninth Inning: The Perfect Game
Billy Chapel didn’t realize he was pitching a perfect game until the final innings. He was exhausted, in pain, thinking about lost love and what he’d left undone.

But he kept going. Not for the crowd, not for fame, for the love of the game itself.

Maybe that’s the lesson: real productivity isn’t about what we produce, it’s about what we pour in. Love. Time. Grace. Patience.  And when we finally lay down the glove, we do it knowing we gave the game everything we had.

Extra Innings: Royals, Mentorship, and Humor
August 16, 1979. Royals Stadium. The kind of Missouri night where the air feels like soup. My buddies and I convinced a few older guys to buy us beers—on one condition: one beer per inning. Sounded like a solid plan. Until the game went 20 innings.

By the 10th, we were crying, “¡No más cerveza!” But a deal’s a deal. The Royals lost 4–3, and we stumbled out of that stadium older, wiser, and deeply hydrated. Life’s extra innings are like that, longer than you expect, more tiring than you planned, but unforgettable if you pace yourself.

These days, I’ve traded beer bets for mentorship. The joy now is helping others run their race, tell their story, and believe they’re not out of the race yet. Because none of us are.

Closing Thought
Age isn’t the end of the game; it’s just the start of extra innings. And the beautiful thing about extra innings? Every pitch still counts. So, whether you’re teaching, mentoring, or simply sharing the stories that made you, you’re still in the game.

And if it ever feels like a 20-inning marathon? Breathe. Laugh. Pray. And this time, skip the beer.