Proving to Your Teen You’re Still the Better Athlete 101

A masterclass in denial, pulled hamstrings, and humble pie.

Lesson 1: The Delusion Begins

It usually starts with a harmless comment.

"Dad, you couldn’t even beat me in a sprint if you had a head start and a Red Bull drip."

And suddenly, you’re 17 again. You’re back in your glory days—varsity jacket on, knee unbraced, joints uncreaky. You forget that you pulled a muscle last week trying to tie your shoe too quickly. You forget your last stretch was in 2019.

You forget. Everything.

Except one thing: You must destroy this child.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve been limping for a week. It doesn’t matter that your last competitive anything was a company softball game in 2014. Your brain, addled by pride and the faint aroma of Icy Hot, tells you this is the moment to prove you’ve still got it.

Spoiler alert: you do not.

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Lesson 2: Choosing the Event

You suggest basketball. He says, "I’ll dunk on you." You pivot to push-ups. He laughs and says, "Without throwing out your back?" You offer a race. He nods. "Bet."

Mistake made. Mistake accepted.

You are now contractually obligated (by ego) to participate in an impromptu family Olympics. You mentally calculate your chances of survival in various events. Long jump? Absolutely not. Burpees? What are you, 25?

You settle on the race. A pure test of speed, willpower, and the quality of your shoe inserts.

Because now your 37-year-old bones are locked into a footrace with someone who thinks "warming up" is just walking from the house to the mailbox.

You, however, spent 14 minutes convincing your ankle it’s safe to be upright.

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Lesson 3: The Warm-Up

He stretches like a cocky cat—barely. Like someone who believes tendons are a myth. You stretch like you're preparing for surgery. Like someone who remembers the great hamstring tear of 2017.

He’s bouncing. You’re wheezing. And that’s just from tying your shoes.

You Google “How to run without tearing both hamstrings.” You wonder if you should wear compression shorts and an ankle brace, just to be safe.

Your teen records a pre-race TikTok. You whisper a prayer to the patron saint of ibuprofen.

It’s go time.

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Lesson 4: The Race

You start strong. For 2.7 glorious seconds, you are a majestic stallion. Adrenaline is doing its job. Your arms are pumping. Your legs are moving in what can only be described as an homage to your former self.

Then:

• Your right knee makes a sound like a fax machine.

• Your hip yells something in Latin.

• Your lungs send a formal request to resign.

Your teen flies by you like a caffeinated gazelle, yelling something smug over his shoulder like, “Don’t pull a hammy!”

You cross the finish line in what can only be described as a “determined hobble.” You raise your arms like Rocky, but your face says I may not walk tomorrow.

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Lesson 5: Excuses & Delusion

"I slipped on that patch of grass." "The sun was in my eyes." "My shoes aren’t built for speed." "I wasn’t going full out. That was like, 60%."

You are now grasping at straws and dignity. Your teen grins. He knows. You know. God knows.

Still, you limp into the kitchen like you just completed a Tough Mudder and say, “Good race.”

He says, “You did good for someone your age.”

You resist the urge to ground him until college. You instead smile and nod. But inside, you’re drafting a secret training plan for next year.

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Lesson 6: The Recovery Phase

Ibuprofen. Ice packs. Ego repair. You now make sound effects every time you sit down. Your walk becomes a series of small negotiations with gravity.

You spend 15 minutes watching knee brace reviews on Amazon. You search “How to speed up recovery for middle-aged athletes” and then immediately change the search to “does pride cause muscle soreness.”

You are, in the purest sense of the phrase, washed. But you are also oddly proud.

Your teen offers to bring you water. You nod. You’re too sore to speak. He comes back with a Gatorade and says, “Next time, maybe we do something less intense. Like Wii Sports.”

You agree. Quietly. Respectfully. With a heating pad.

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Lesson 7: The Realization

Here’s the truth: you’re not faster anymore. Not stronger. Not more agile. And your recovery window has gone from 20 minutes to 20 business days.

But you are wiser. You know where the Advil is kept. You know when to stop pushing. You know that proving something to your kid shouldn’t require an orthopedic consult.

And maybe the real flex isn’t beating them. It’s being the dad who still shows up. Still races. Still plays. Still cheers. Even if you’re doing it while clutching your back and wearing compression socks.

You’re not the better athlete. You’re the one who taught them how to play in the first place. And that counts for something. Maybe even everything.

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Final Exam: What Have We Learned?

• Teens recover fast. You do not. They sprint. You creak.

• Trash talk feels good until you pull a hammy trying to back it up. Also, teens will quote your pre-race words back to you.

• Proving you’re still an athlete shouldn’t involve actual medical paperwork—or a consultation with a physical therapist named Brenda.

But you showed up. You tried. You limped. And somewhere in all that—your teen saw you care.

Even if they still won.

Now go rest. You’ve got Wii Sports to dominate tomorrow. And maybe pickleball next spring. Once your ankle forgives you.

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The Washed-Up Warrior

Ingredients:

• 2 oz bourbon (for when pride goes down faster than your knees)

• ¾ oz amaro (because life, like this race, is bitter)

• ½ oz lemon juice (to match the face you made when you pulled something mid-sprint)

Instructions:
Shake with ice like you're trying to relive your glory days.
Strain into a rocks glass over one big cube.
Garnish with nothing—you're too tired.

Tagline:
Recovery in a glass. Best served with an ice pack and your teen’s smug grin.