Sometimes, I have to remind myself… well… I’m not as young as I once was. Every now and then, I need to look at life through the lens of my actual age—36—and let that overconfident 20-something living inside of me take a back seat.

This realization hit hard over the weekend.

Friday night started off with simple plans: watch some baseball, maybe grab a few drinks at a bar afterward. Those things did happen. But what followed the baseball game turned the night into something… memorable. This is the story of “The Slide.”

It was a perfect 74-degree evening at the Winston-Salem Dash game. No kids, just a great group of friends and killer seats right behind home plate. The game was fun, the vibe was solid, and best of all—it was Friday night, which meant fireworks.

The game wrapped around 9:00 PM, and we watched the postgame fireworks show (side note: pretty impressive for a minor league team). I’d had a few drinks—not a lot, but enough to take the edge off and make me feel 10 years younger. I don’t drink often these days, so those beers hit just right.

As the fireworks ended, an announcement came over the loudspeaker:
“Parents, if your kids would like to run the bases, please come to the first base dugout.”

I turned to my wife and, half-joking, asked, “Mom, can I run the bases?”
She gave me that familiar look—the one that says, “You’re an idiot.” Then, one of my friends dared me to do it.

Challenge accepted.

I bolted to the first base dugout like a kid chasing an ice cream truck. But once I got in line, I noticed something: I was the only adult in that line who didn’t have a kid in tow.

For a brief second, I considered asking to “borrow” someone’s child, just to blend in—but I also enjoy not being in jail.

Two kids stood in front of me, about to hop down onto the field. I moved a little closer (not in a creepy way) to look like I was with them, hoping the staff wouldn’t question it.

And it worked.

I was in.

I took off, rounding first, then second—where I gave the mascot, Bolt, a triumphant low-five. As I rounded third, a staff member shouted, “You’re not a kid!” But at that point, I was committed. I was living the dream, soaking in my imaginary walk-off homer glory.

Then it happened.

From the stands, the same friend who dared me to run yelled:

“You won’t slide!”

So I slid.
Or… I tried to.
It was less of a slide and more of a full-body collapse.

Not pretty.

The aftermath? Also not pretty.

I spent 25 minutes in the ballpark bathroom wrapping my leg in toilet paper like a makeshift mummy. Adrenaline—or maybe the lingering buzz—numbed the pain for a bit, so we continued on to the bar and kept the night alive.

But the next morning?

Absolute hell.
My leg was (and still is) wrecked.

Let this be a reminder:
I am not as young as I once was.

Picture of aftermath… below

-Matt Webb