Life Is Not a Spectator Sport

The field, not the bleachers. Hiking with Rocket and Groot.

Nine weeks ago, I had hip replacement surgery.
Twelve days later, I crossed the starting line of an obstacle course — something I wrote about in detail here.

Result?
A triple femur fracture.
A week in the hospital.
A week in rehab.
Now another five weeks of healing at home.

That’s the headline. But how I got here — and what it taught me — is the real story.

The Water Slide

Before the race, I wasn’t reckless. I worked with my physical therapist. We mapped out every obstacle, one by one. Which ones were safe? Which were borderline? Which were flat-out stupid for me to try?

Out of thirty obstacles, I had narrowed it down to four or five. The plan was simple: do those, then head home proud I’d stepped back into the arena of life.

And then I came around a corner and saw the water slide.

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I’d been down it many times before. It looked harmless. Just water, just a slide. No ground to hit. No rock to smash into. No risk — or so I thought.

I crossed my legs to “minimize” the impact of hitting the water — but in that moment, I actually maximized the potential for damage. The impact crushed the hardware in my hip.

The Critics

The injury brought more than pain. It brought an avalanche of criticism.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re too old for this.”
“What were you thinking?”

Not just words. Hardware after the fracture.

I’ve heard it from family and friends concerned about my wellbeing. I’ve also heard it from well-meaning spectators — people who confuse the bleachers for wisdom.

The irony is that their judgment says more about them than about me. And with all the time I’ve had just sitting still while my body healed, I realized something: many people spend their entire lives in the stands, never daring to step onto the field.

And once you see that, you can’t unsee it.

Spectator vs. Player

Think about a football game. The fans scream, cheer, swear at the referees. Some know the rules inside and out. They live and die with the score. But they’re not on the field. They’re in the stands, living vicariously.

That’s fine for a football game. But in life? Spectating comes with a cost.

Players risk injury, embarrassment, fatigue. They fall down, they fail, they bleed. But they’re in the game. They’re alive. They’re moving toward something.

Spectators sit back, comment, and then go home unchanged. They never know the joy of crossing a finish line, even if they come in last. They never feel the nerves that come before putting yourself out there — or the pride that comes afterward.

And if we’re honest, most of us have been both. I’ve seen it at work, at home, even in myself. Spectating sneaks in more often than we like to admit.

So what does it look like when you live from the stands?

The Many Faces of Spectating

It isn’t hard to spot the signs. Maybe some of these sound familiar:

You’ve said for years you want to lose weight, but nothing changes. A dozen false starts, a new diet every January, and yet the scale hasn’t budged.You dream about starting your own business. You’ve got the idea, maybe even a logo, but you never put in the work. Or maybe you tried once — but when it didn’t succeed right away, you walked away.You’re in a job you hate, and you’ve been told it’s ending. You had months of notice. And you’ve done nothing. No résumé, no networking, no job search.Your relationship has been crumbling for years. You know it. Your spouse knows it. But instead of facing it, you’ve coasted, waiting for something to change on its own.You know alcohol is a problem. You admit it in quiet moments. But you keep drinking, telling yourself it’s not the right time to stop.

If any of these ring a bell, you’re not alone. I’ve been there too — waiting, convincing myself that comfort was safer.

But the truth is, comfort doesn’t save you. It just steals your minutes.

Why People Choose the Bleachers

For many people, spectating feels safe. It lets you criticize without risking failure. It keeps you comfortable.

And comfort is seductive. It whispers: You’ll get around to it. It promises: Next year will be different. It pats you on the shoulder while time drains out of your life, one irretrievable minute at a time.

Not in every area. We don’t watch someone else read a novel and call it the same as reading it ourselves. We don’t watch a chef cook dinner and then call ourselves fed. But when it comes to the big stuff — careers, health, love, growth — spectating creeps in.

And the excuses pile up: I’m too busy. I’m too tired. I’m too old. It’s too risky.

The truth? Most of the time it isn’t busyness. It’s fear.

And I get it. I’ve been there too. Before I came out as a gay man, I spent years in the stands — waiting, convincing myself that staying hidden was safer. It was safe, sure. But it wasn’t living.

I understand why people choose the stands. I’ve done it too. But there’s always a bill that comes due. And it’s higher than most people want to admit.

The Cost of Spectating

Spectators aren’t just missing out. They’re eroding.

Every excuse, every procrastinated decision, every ignored opportunity chips away at your vitality. You end up not just older, but smaller — diminished, because you never tested yourself, never risked anything, never grew.

And then you look at someone like me, hobbling around on crutches after an impulsive slide decision, and say, “You’re too old for that.”

No. I’m not too old. I’m alive. I’m playing. And I’d rather break a bone living than keep my body intact dying by inches in the stands.

Recovery isn’t glamorous. Even players have pit stops.

So if that’s the cost, what’s the alternative? What does playing look like?

What Playing Looks Like

Playing doesn’t always mean signing up for an obstacle course.

Sometimes it’s walking into a gym for the first time in twenty years.Sometimes it’s putting the same overtime into your own business that you’ve always given away to someone else’s.Sometimes it’s finally opening the laptop and applying for the job you’re afraid you won’t get.Sometimes it’s starting the hard conversation with your spouse you’ve been avoiding.Sometimes it’s pouring the alcohol down the drain and facing the shakes.Back on the water with Groot and Rocket. Playing can look like joy, not just grit.

For me, it was saying yes to love again after loss. That story is in my book Come As You Are: Five Years Later.

Playing isn’t about big gestures. It’s about choosing action when inaction would be easier.

Getting Off the Bleachers

So what does it take to move from spectator to player?

First, courage. You have to admit where you’ve been sitting out. No more excuses. No more lies to yourself.

Second, discipline. Show up, practice, put in the work. Musicians don’t just walk into a concert hall and perform — they rehearse until their fingers bleed. Athletes don’t just show up on game day — they grind through hours of training.

Third, sacrifice. You have to give something up: comfort, ego, that extra hour of sleep, the Ring Dings for breakfast, the certainty of staying small.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. But the alternative is worse.

And once you step up, you see life differently. Even the risks — even the pain — look different from the field.

Life on the Field

I don’t know if I’ll ever go down that slide again. Maybe I’ll carry the memory of this injury for years, even decades. But I do know this: I will sign up for the next event. And the one after that.

Because life is too short to waste in the stands.

The clock doesn’t stop. The minutes don’t return. You can spend them spectating — or you can spend them living.

So stop waiting. Step forward. Take the field.

Because when the final whistle blows, the only question that matters is this:

Did you play?

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