"They were shooting at Dwayne Roloson again.
It was Wednesday night, sweep night, and the Caps had turned the moment into a skeet shoot, and the pucks seemed to be coming at the Lightning goalie two at a time. Roloson was in full scramble, a man fighting off a wasp attack, lunging and twisting and darn near flying the way he has been doing for most of the postseason.
In that moment, the oddest thought of all struck me.
Egad. In the name of Roloson, I had become a birther.
In that moment, I wanted to see, needed to see, Roloson's birth certificate and the yellowed parchment upon which it was printed. I didn't care where Roli was born. I cared when.
There is no way this guy can be 41 years old, is there? Every save seems to take a week off his age, and every victory seems to take off a year. These days, Roloson is 41 going on 31. If he can win the upcoming Eastern Conference final against the Bruins, his teammates might as well pitch in for acne medication. If he plays any better, he's going to need a mom to stay up late enough for the games.
I know, I know. Every now and then an athlete manages to fight off time and impress us with his achievement. By and large we love old athletes, perhaps because we're all fighting the years. Give me an athlete who first got his birth certificate so he could drive a Studebaker and I'm on my feet. With a little help, of course.
Jack Nicklaus won the Masters at 46, and George Foreman won the heavyweight championship at 45, and Richard Petty won Daytona at 47. Warren Spahn won 23 games at 42, and Dara Torres won three silver Olympic medals at 41, and Nolan Ryan threw a no-hitter at 44.
George Blanda went in at quarterback to help lead his team to a comeback victory over Cincinnati at 44, and Willie Shoemaker won the Kentucky Derby at 54, and Warren Moon threw for 25 touchdowns at 41. There was Gordie Howe and Martina Navratilova and Sam Snead and Pete Rose and Evander Holyfield and Darrell Green and Chris Chelios and on and on."
