As I’ve been watching the NBA playoffs this spring, I’ve reached an unhappy milestone: I’m now old enough to dread learning the birthdates of professional athletes.
When I was a kid, the only pertinent piece of data about a player was his height. That Spud Webb could dunk despite being 5' 7"; that Michael Jordan was a palindromic, Greek-God-like 6’ 6"; these were the things that seemed to me worth knowing. I would no more have thought of the age of a basketball player than I would have thought of the age of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
But when I watch games now, a message flashes across my [...]