Needing a compass

I waver between respect and contempt for professional athletes. In my cynical moments, my economic socialist moments, I despise them and the sort of living they make, although an honest soul might (correctly) name that jealousy. I proclaim to people that I want to be a professional ultimate player (if I had any choice) and yet these past weeks when I have had the opportunity I haven't used it. Evident it was today, panting up the field, pivoting weakly, throwing behind my cutters, half-heartedly falling towards a rapidly descending disc. Which I didn't catch. I felt it coming up the stairs tonight, the dull ache of no energy and the protest of muscle that has been ill-used. I read about football players in the offseason, working three or more hours every day to get into playing-level shape and hotly protest that I see no great effort or martyrdom in that - they are paid to do it, they have personal trainers and teammates: motivation. And yet I cannot seem to muster the enthusiasm for a two mile run, crunches in the morning, throwing (with effort) in the park. It is so hard to pull yourself back into the game when you have been out of it for so long. I remember the days when I could run every day without being exhausted, the miles slipping by in peaceful thought. I looked for rabbits, crossed streams, counted golf balls and jumped over horse manure. Somehow I have lost my way. Tomorrow, I say, tomorrow I will. But eventually I have to say "today".