I'm giving in ... totally. My views have changed, my mind is now made up. If I've ever shouted at my television or seen you live and tossed the word fossil in your general direction, I'm sorry.
Seriously, I've turned over a new leaf. It's time to come clean. After getting through my umpteenth Warped Tour music festival in St. Louis last week I've come to the realization that I've got one, maybe two, good years left in me.
Initially looking forward to the festival as a highlight during a week of vacation, once I got about eight hours into the trip I realized I'm just not as young as I used to be.
And, no, I didn't play live at the show, I just walked around and watched the bands play. There was the usual pushing and shoving, and you had to watch out for the elbows, but I kept thinking I shouldn't be this worn out.
But I was. Phew.
I've always been attracted to events like Warped. It's always been like a professional sporting event. You get there, you're surrounded by young, talented people and you pay then a lot to watch. You're always trying to move up to the best spot to watch and there is this energy that buzzes around you the entire day.
So, don't get me wrong, I loved it. It was just this vulnerable, spent feeling I felt around 10 p.m. that night that bothered me. The thought of walking all the way out to parking session C-6 almost made me cry as I left the venue.
But, with the help of that tube of sunblock — slathered on all day long — and a little air conditioning on the long trip home I felt better. That stop at Denny's outside O'Fallon didn't hurt either.
The days started off good. While I bulldozed my way to the front of the stage around 11 a.m. with two friends that went along, I heard my name being called from the back of the crowd. I turned around and see Benton residents Brandon Crawford and others watching along with me. So that was a good way to start.
But the rest of the day turned into a tedious game of forcing my way through a sort of impromptu Million Man March that made a circle around the six or seven stages that were hosting different bands all day long. And, of course, you never wanted to watch two bands in a row on the same stage — that would have been too easy. So after watching about seven bands play, I started to really realize that this is a younger man's game.
So now I have to right all the wrongs I've made to a lot of people.
Jamie Moyer, I'm sorry. If you can pitch seven innings in the heat and get a couple major league batters out, I'm in your corner.
Evander Holyfield, keep fighting. Get your brains bashed in as long as you want. I will cheer for you every time — unless you take on John "The Beat" Mugawbi or Bobby Czyz, who are both older than you.
Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Jerry Rice, Nolan Ryan, Willie Shoemaker, Martina Navratilova ... and all the rest, forgive me. I know that I really couldn't beat you in anything as I have said several times while watching you play.
There are a few exceptions, though. George Foreman, you ned to quit. And take Julio Franco with you. And Dikembe Mutombo ... well, your services are no longer needed (I say as I shake my finger in your face).
And I want everyone to know that I never, ever made any cracks towards Chris Chelios or Michael Jordan as they played well into their 40s. Number one, they were still at the top of their games and, number two, I'm a little scared of both of them.
Anyway, could you imagine yelling "Don't Shoot" to Jordan just because his body was creaking as he made his way to the basket?
Me, either. That would crazy. You might even call it warped.