When an athlete’s career is coming upon its twilight years, he has two choices. He can call it quits and ride off into the sunset like the Lone Ranger, or he can hang on until the bitter end and face a fate much like that of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

And then there are the guys that retire, miss the game, and come back hoping to relive the past. The guys like Jesse James, trying to rob one last train before the law catches up.

An athlete’s entire legacy can suffer greatly from the choice not to ride off into the sunset, but to be forced from the game.

But when you’re talking of athletes on a smaller stage — those playing for nothing but the love of the game — there are no real legacies involved and no fans clamoring to see you play one last time. Except, maybe, for your mom.

Wives and kids, jobs and adult obligations take precedence and ultimately lead to walking away long before you’re ready. It’s hard to commit to something like softball when you’re not sure if you can be there every time the team takes the field.

That was the reason I, myself, quit playing slow-pitch softball. While living in Cincinnati, I developed a good group of friends that invited me to be part of their team. The Lost Boys — as the team was named — were a group of kids that grew up together on the west side of the city and spent most of their free time together. I was the oldest guy on the team, save for our pitcher, Ed, who was one of the other player’s dad’s.

It didn’t take long to be accepted by the group in all aspects. In fact, some of my exploits as a third baseman and a friend are still legend among the guys, even five years after I left the city to come back to Ashtabula. They even retired my jersey — more for what I brought to the team from a chemistry standpoint than anything I ever did on the field (I think I was the comic relief).

My move home was not a popular one among the Lost Boys and I still get questioned on when I’m moving back to the southwestern corner of the Buckeye State.

On my trip to the Queen City over the weekend, I was given the chance to suit up and play one more time.

My reply, at first, was that I’m getting older and I haven’t played competitively in about four years. What good could come of that?

Then, after a half a minute, the fact I missed the game and the guys hit me in the face and I agreed to do it.

So on Sunday, I trekked over to Rumpke Park from Lawrenceburg, Ind., where I was staying with a friend and made my way into the complex.

It was strange to be back at the place I had some of my best times from what seems like so long ago.

Once inside, I was hailed by my good friends Tom and Chris, who were teammates of mine so long ago. The pair promptly commented on how good the old uniform — which hadn’t been worn in five summers — still looked.

We sat around and talked of old times and of the guys no longer with the team.