Every Sunday Morning Might Be the Last

Yesterday morning, I played basketball for the first time in over a month—coming off yet another knee injury in what’s been a year of on-and-off playing. We ran for almost two hours, and by the end, I was completely wiped out—physically useless until this Monday morning. But as drained as I felt, I also felt deeply grateful. That game reminded me why I keep coming back to the court, no matter how long the break or how stiff the comeback. This post is about that feeling—why the game still matters, and what it continues to teach me.

I woke up at 7 AM this past Sunday with maybe four or five hours of sleep under my belt. Saturday night out with Nidhi ran later than planned, but I made sure we got back in time. Because Sunday morning basketball isn’t negotiable for me—even when it probably should be.

“I don’t know if this is the last time I’ll play,” I told my wife as I laced up my shoes.

She looked at me with that concerned expression—the one that said she thought I was being morbid, like I might drop dead on the court. That’s not what I meant at all.

I meant: Will this be the last time my knees hold up? Will I tweak something that finally tells me it’s over? Will this Sunday be the one where my body says, “That’s enough, we’re done here”?

If you’re a guy in your forties who still plays the game you grew up with, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

The Math Doesn’t Add Up Anymore

There was a time—middle school through fellowship, honestly—when I played basketball almost daily. Four, five, six hours straight. Eat massive amounts of food, play video games, wake up the next day and do it all over again. My body just absorbed it. No recovery needed.

All I did back then was play basketball and read books. Play basketball and read books. That was the entire cycle. I wasn’t some prodigy with college dreams, but like most of us, I thought my game was good enough that maybe, just maybe, someone would notice someday.

Then you get married. Have kids. Life responsibilities pile up. Playing four hours a day becomes impossible, but I stayed consistent—a couple times a week at least. When I moved to Orlando, I found my people. My old friend and partner Danny Landau and I used to leave work early during our “administrative day” every Thursdays at noon, and play one-on-one or pick up ball for hours. Those were good times.

But somewhere in your thirties, and definitely by your forties, the ceiling hits you. Your reflexes slow down. You’re moving differently. The twenty-year-olds and thirty-year-olds aren’t just faster—they’re playing a different game. And the worst part? Your brain still thinks you can keep up. Your brain still wants to take on anybody who guards you. But your body has other plans.

Now, after ninety minutes of ball, I’m useless for an entire day. Not tired— completely useless. I’m on the couch with my eyes closed, not physically or mentally present. My entire system is shutting down just to reset and heal. My wife has witnessed this enough times to know: Sunday basketball means she’s essentially flying solo for the day.

We had to form our own old man group about three or four years ago. Sunday mornings. Half court only. Must be forty or older—that’s the rule. If we can get 6-8 guys, we run three-on-three or four-on-four. No more full court. We play games to eleven, and our final game goes to fifteen. That’s it. We’re done.

There was a time we’d play one more after fifteen. If it was a good game, someone would always say, “Come on, one more.” Now? After fifteen, we look at each other knowing we physically cannot continue. We have responsibilities. Church. Kids. Lunch. Life. This is where we are now.

The Kid We Had to Break Up With

We’re serious about the age requirement. The only exception is if someone brings their teenage kid who’s still learning—and only if they’re not too good yet. Once they hit high teens or twenties and start dominating, they’re out.

One Sunday, some kid in his thirties showed up. Friend of a friend. He was draining threes, driving to the basket, running circles around us. Somehow I got elected to tell this guy he can’t come back?

The following Sunday, he showed up again. I had to have the conversation.

“Hey man, it’s not you—it’s us,” I told him. I was literally breaking up with this guy. “We’re old guys trying to exercise and have fun. You’re too good. You should be playing full court with guys at your level.”

His response? “I’ll just play down to your level.” That hurt.

“Dude,” I said, “We don’t want to get hurt trying to guard you. Go play A-league full court. This is old man ball.”

It was both awkward and oddly complimentary to him I think… but necessary.

What This Game Still Means

I show up to these games with knee braces. I take 600 milligrams of ibuprofen beforehand. I drink a ton of water. I need coffee just to function. And still, the night before, I get giddy thinking about it.

Basketball connects me to my youth in a way nothing else does. All those hours on the court as a kid. High school. College. Medical school. Residency. Fellowship. Through getting married. Through having kids. Even in my loneliest or saddest moments, I’d go to the court, put on my headphones, and just shoot. Dribble. Play. It’s therapeutic.

Yesterday morning, we were about halfway through our first run. I was playing three-on-three, and we had just lost a game—badly. As we walked off the court, I turned to my teammate Justin Rineer and asked him a simple but honest question: “Are you here to exercise, or are you here to win?”

It wasn’t a jab. It wasn’t even frustration. It was something I ask myself all the time. I mean, I don’t want to get hurt. But I also hate losing. So I needed to know—where was his head at? Because depending on that answer, I could adjust too. His response was one word: “Both.” That next game, we turned it up. Aggressive, locked in, moving with purpose, not always pretty. While it started as a rhetorical question, I think it reminded both of us what this game still stirs up in us: the desire to push, to connect, to compete, and to still feel like we matter out there.

During that last game to fifteen, I looked around at the guys I was playing with. Some are childhood friends. Some are colleagues. Some are newer friends. We’re all giving everything we’ve got, knowing this might be one of our last games—not because we’re done for the season, but because any Sunday could be the one where something breaks and doesn’t come back.

I was walking up the stairs with my friend CJ and I asked him, “Do you ever come to these games thinking it might be the last time?”

“Every time,” he said.

But we still show up. We still play our hearts out. We still get that rush of endorphins that carries us through the entire week. And the next day—after a full day of recovery that makes us completely useless—we feel sharp, crisp, alive.

The Fear and the Hope

I don’t know when my last game will be. Maybe it’ll be an injury. Maybe old age. Maybe illness. Maybe I’ll just wake up one day and realize I physically can’t do it anymore.

I’ve started transitioning to pickleball, which is fun but doesn’t carry the decades of skill development and emotional connection that basketball does. It doesn’t connect me to who I was at thirteen, or eighteen, or twenty-five. It’s not the same.

So I keep rehabbing. Four or five times a week, I’m in the gym doing physical therapy, working out, strengthening what needs strengthening, running —all with one honest goal: to get back on that court Sunday morning.

I hope I can play into my fifties and sixties. I hope I’m still running three-on-three with the same group of guys a decade from now. I hope my body holds up just a little bit longer.

What I’ve Learned Playing on Borrowed Time

Here’s what playing basketball in my forties has taught me that I wish I’d understood in my twenties:

It’s about showing up when showing up is hard. It’s about the choice to keep doing something that makes you feel alive, even when your body is telling you to stay in bed. It’s about honoring the kid you were—the one who played for hours just because the sun was out and the court was there.

Every Sunday morning, I’m not just playing basketball. I’m having a conversation with time itself. I’m negotiating with my body, making promises to take care of it if it’ll just give me a few more games. I’m banking memories with guys who understand that what we’re really doing out there is refusing to let go of something that defined us before we became all the other things we had to become—husbands, fathers, professionals, men with responsibilities and kids who need us home.

The truth is, I’m not afraid of the last game. I’m afraid of not knowing it was the last game when it happens. I’m afraid I’ll take some random Sunday for granted, not savoring every possession, every shot, every moment of trash talk and laughter, only to discover later that my body has decided we’re done.

So now I treat every game like it might be the last one. Not morbidly, but gratefully.

I notice the sound of the ball bouncing on the court. The weight of it in my hands. The arc of a shot that feels perfect. The satisfaction of a good pass. The way CJ or Danny always talk trash even though we’re all too tired to back it up. The shared exhaustion at the end, when we’re all bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard, but smiling.

These moments are finite. Every joy in life is finite. And that’s exactly what makes them precious.

To the Men Who Still Show Up

If you’re reading this and you have that thing—that sport, that hobby, that piece of your youth you’re still clinging to in your forties—don’t apologize for it. Don’t let anyone make you feel ridiculous for caring about it.

Show up with your knee braces and your ibuprofen and your ice packs. Show up tired. Show up sore. Show up even when it doesn’t make logical sense. Because this isn’t about logic. This is about staying connected to who you were before life told you who you needed to be.

And to our wives who watch us hobble around for twenty-four hours after doing something we absolutely didn’t need to do: thank you. Thank you for understanding that we’re not just playing a game. We’re fighting to keep a part of ourselves alive. We’re teaching our kids—by example—that joy is worth pursuing, that passion doesn’t have an expiration date, and that showing up for the things that make you feel alive is never a waste of time.

Every Sunday Morning Might Be the Last

That’s not a tragedy. That’s not something to fear.

That’s the very reason I lace up my shoes at 7 AM, with too little sleep and too many years on my body. That’s why I keep rehabbing, keep strengthening, keep showing up.

Because when you know something is finite, you stop taking it for granted. When you know Sunday morning might be the last time, you play every possession like it matters. You savor it. You show up fully present.

And in doing that—in honoring the game, the fellowship, the connection to our younger selves—we discover something profound: The point was never to play forever. The point was to play fully, for as long as we’re able. To squeeze every drop of joy from every game. To refuse to sleepwalk through the precious, fleeting moments we’re given.

That’s what Sunday morning basketball has become for me. Not a game, but a practice in presence. A meditation on mortality. A celebration of what it means to be fully alive, right now, while we still can.

So I’ll keep showing up when I can. I’ll keep taking the ibuprofen and wearing the braces and doing the work to earn just a few more games.

Because one day—maybe soon, maybe years from now—I’ll play my last game of basketball.

But until that day comes, I’m going to keep choosing joy. I’m going to keep showing up. I’m going to keep honoring the kid I was and the man I’ve become and all the versions of me that have lived and died on these courts over the past four decades.

And when that last game finally comes… whenever it comes… I’ll walk off the court with no regrets. Because I didn’t take any of it for granted.

I showed up. I played. I lived.

That’s all any of us can hope to do.

See you next Sunday.

“At the end of the day, this second shift is about more than just work—it’s about building a life with purpose. I believe in the power of showing up fully across every spoke of life—career, family, health, finances, intellect, spirituality, and joy. This space is where I reflect, recalibrate, and keep striving for that delicate, worthwhile balance. I write not just to document the journey, but to remind myself—and maybe you too—that it’s okay to want more, to give more, and to grow through every season.” — st