We’ve all seen them. The quarterbacks who stayed just a year or two too long in the game. In some cases, we’re talking Hall of Famers. Rather than leave as they peak, they battle it out, bad knees and all. I once was watching a game with my brother—Kansas City versus someone—and Rich Gannon was the quarter back. He was forty-something years old. I want to say 42. As he dropped back into the pocket, a nominal rush, no defender near him, after his third step he poised to set up in the statuesque QB stance, planted his cleats in the turf, and with no one around him at all, his legs turned to noodles and he went down.

His muscles were too weak to support his frame, doing what he’d done a thousand times. It was actually kind of funny, being that he didn’t get hurt. It was also sad. For whatever reason, Gannon had decided (as many do) to go until something gave, rather than exit gracefully.

Unfortunately we’ve all seen it elsewhere, too. The driver who is endangering not just themselves, or city property, but other people. Innocents. Young children who haven’t even reached the age to have a chance to experience driving for themselves.

Now before anyone older than me (I’m 48) lays into me with the “you just wait, boy” lashings, I am not saying there’s anything wrong with getting old. It’s the one constant for all of us. Well, that, and death, but the two are many times hand-in-hand.

I’ve already made my wife promise that if I push the driving to the point where I’m a menace, take away the keys. I’ll ride the train, or the bus, or I’ll just stay home. I guarantee you I’ll know when to say enough is enough. Or at least I hope so.

Last night I went to see probably the greatest songwriter the world will ever know. I’m not one of these music listeners who only know my own generation’s music and say stupid things like “who are the Doors?” That’s a whole other conversation: the duty of each generation to pass down the stories and sounds of the pioneers, the legends.

Robert Johnson.

Chuck Berry.

Jimi Hendrix.

Aretha Franklin.

Les Paul.

Ray Charles.

Elvis Presley.

Buddy Holly.

Frank Sinatra.

Obviously it would take far too long to list even a fraction of the musicians—the artists—who made the music we take for granted today even possible (and then you’d end up with a list like Rolling Stones’ honest, if completely ridiculous, attempt to list the greatest guitar players of all time). You can never have a complete list, but last night I went to see an indisputable member of any list on the origins of Rock and Roll: Bob Dylan (and his band).

Now normally, even though the playbill (which was really cool) listed Bob “and his band”, I would have stopped at “Dylan”. But after witnessing the horror that was the cadaver of the great Bob Dylan weaving (barely) from piano/crutch to piano/crutch and sounding like they didn’t get all the dirt out of his throat before digging him up, I MUST include “and his band”, because they were the only thing that kept the crowd from rushing the stage and killing Dylan (again).

All dark humor aside, it was worse than a train wreck. The band truly was amazing. I mean, they were worth the money to see. Problem is, it was as if you’d walked into a bar off Bourbon Street and were listening to this totally incredible band and when they did a cover of an old Dylan classic, some drunk old guy with gray, frizzy hair exploding in all directions, jumped up onstage and did a hilarious impression (if horribly off-key) of Dylan himself, and then the club couldn’t get the guy to sit down.

It was gut-wrenching. Especially since I’d never heard Dylan live in all these decades and now never will. I cannot describe how horrible (and unlike himself) he sounded. And hey, I’m the first to admit Bob never had a crooner’s voice. He weren’t no Sinatra when it came to vocals. But a songwriter and performer? All you needed from Bob Dylan to become mesmerized by his songs was to simply understand the man. In fact, his grating voice and inability to hit every note was all part of his genius. It fit his songs and his music.

He never even picked up a guitar last night, although he did play the harmonica several times, and he can still wail on the mouth harp. But Bob Dylan, sans hat, guitar, and a lone spotlight? It’s not too much to say my hopes were shattered.

We all get old, and there is nothing better than meeting someone who has done it gracefully, without fighting it, yet also without giving in to it either. Age on a human being can very well be like a work of art. But eventually, we all lose a step. And then a few. And then all of them. It is God’s one cruel joke on us all, they say. We start out in diapers not knowing who we are and, if we survive long enough, we end that way, too.

I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I’m well on my way. I know I’ll never play in a football game again. Heck, my knees will probably never allow me another basketball game. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I ever want to get that old. We all know there are too many cases where it’s not a pretty thing. And my ego cannot withstand the idea of losing my self-respect or of being pitied.

Back to my current PTSD from the concert last night. I’m going to have to spend the whole weekend listening to my Bob Dylan collection just so those are the last memories of a total legend in the music industry I have playing in my head. And you don’t have to take my word for it. There was one empty seat next to me all night (three jammin’ bands played before Bob’s set—in fact the music began at 5 PM and Dylan and his band didn’t take the stage until 9 PM). Right at nine, a gentleman who was probably ten years older than me, if that, appeared out of nowhere to claim his seat. He told me he’d seen Dylan a dozen times and oh, what a treat awaited me up on the stage.

He left after the third song. If the band hadn’t been so good I am certain I would have been able to hear his muffled sobs as he, too, bid fare-thee-well to a legend for the last time. By the time the band had been reluctantly (but thank God, respectfully) called out for a one-song encore, the crowd had dwindled to less than half.

Bob, you were too good to erase all you’ve done with a handful of horrific performances (clearly he’s too legendary and, more importantly, influential, for that to happen), but it’s time to kick back, roll a fat one, pour yourself a glass of your favorite sipping beverage, and sit back to reflect on a lifetime we mere mortals cannot even imagine.

You will remain to me an icon, and idol, a pioneer, and the greatest songwriter who ever lived. My father played in a folk song trio in college and later in life he would strap on the harmonica, tune his guitar, and my mother would sing the breathtaking harmonies to Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right and Blowin’ In The Wind and for those memories alone I am indebted.

Nothing can change your mark on music’s history, nor your place in it’s Hall of Fame.

But please, Bob, for the love of your legions of fans, no more stages.

Or automobiles.

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.

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