Young Ben at work, also known as The Future, asked me if I wanted to make a last-minute guest appearance at his Tuesday night six-a-side. I thought about it, and made the right decision, accepting that huffing and puffing around a football pitch with a bunch of 25-year-olds just isn’t in my playbook any longer. Too fat. Too old. Too thirsty.

I said sorry, The Future (it’s a slightly unwieldy nickname), I’m going to the pub, fancy coming? The Future said yeah, OK. So he binned the football and we got semi-hammered at the Camel in Bethnal Green instead. Corrupting the young, it’s one of the pleasures of middle age.

I got Tufty John and Cousin George along, too. The three old buggers forced young Ben to sit outside so we could smoke, even though the lad was freezing. Still, character-building for him. We took him inside later and got him a pie.

I’ve been feeling my advancing years of late. There’s the constant white noise from my daughter, nine going on 19, daddy you can’t sing, daddy you can’t dance, daddy you’ve got a rubbish phone, daddy you so live in the olden times, daddy your life is basically as good as over, and so on. And then there was Andy Merrifield, a writer I interviewed about donkeys in the spring, back when I was only 43. Andy is 47, probably turned 48 now. We were chatting, and he made reference to “our generation,” as in mine and his being the same one, and of course, four years isn’t much, we are the same generation, even so, it was a shock.

And then, not long ago, I was at a party and a guy there wanted to talk about the future of journalism, niche v general interest, columns v blogging, print v online, yadda yadda yadda. “You look like you’ve been doing this a long time,” he said by way of a preface. And I thought well, yeah, but not compared to some people. Precisely how long is a long time? Twenty years? Fifty years? Ninety-five years?

And the other factor, cause and effect of feeling ancient, is I’ve taken up badminton. I say taken up, I’ve played it three weeks running, does that count as taken up? Counts enough for a column, that’s for sure.

Very silly word, badminton, I can’t write it, let alone say it, without squirming. Badders is even worse. Still, it’s a good game, although disorientating. Either it happens in slow motion, Chariots of Fire, Nigel Havers running along a beach, or speeded up, Benny Hill being chased through a maze by women in their underwear. There doesn’t seem to be any normal time in between. It’s also one of those games, like croquet or chess, that you think are genteel then turn out to be total bloodsports. The most effective shot in badminton, I am learning, is the smash straight into the other guy’s face.

We play doubles at the John Orwell in Wapping, Wednesday lunchtime, swap partners around. Not swap partners in the Seventies suburbia car keys in a bowl, wine and cheese sense, swap partners in the platonic racquet-sports sense. Me and Mark, me and Claire, me and Mike, me and Chris, we’ve tried all possible permutations, it doesn’t make much difference, my record still reads played 18, won 0, lost 18. It’s not impressive, is it? If I’m partnering the form player, and he or she plays really well, and I don’t (shuttle) cock it up too often, then we still lose, but not by that much.

Retrieval, that was always my thing. I’ve played a bit of tennis, a bit of squash, and I wasn’t much good at either, no skill or stamina; what I did have was speed over the short distance. (My sporting role model is, you will recall, West Germany’s Gerd Müller, aka Der Bomber, short and fat yet lightning quick over three yards.) “Did have” is right. What I’ve discovered these last three weeks on the badminton court is that that speed has, definitively, gone. And it’s not coming back.

I feel as if mind and body have been dipped in treacle. Or cannabis. Oh look, a feathered white object is coming in my direction. Absorb information. Ah-ha, better do something about it. Calculate flight path. Issue instructions to legs. Legs initiate one, two, three lumbering strides… Oh dear, feathered white object hits floor six feet away. Point to the opposition.

Quizzical look from partner. Happens again. Happens again. Lose game. The worst of it is, the day after, and the day after that, my shoulders, back, legs and, weirdly, left hip, all ache abominably.

Still, musn’t grumble. I’m getting quite good at that move where you duck so your partner can belt it over your head: lean over, arse in air, got that taped. And as for the rest, there’s plenty of time to improve.

The Footballing Years may be over, the Badminton Years have barely begun. And the Golf Years, and the Bowls Years, and then close of play, the chequered flag, the full count, the hooter, klaxon, final whistle, finishing line, 18th green, stumps, whatever you want to call it, that’s still a long way off.

robert.crampton@thetimes.co.uk