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A True Blow to One's Self-Image: Being Seen as a Golf Guy

As we descended through 10,000 feet the other night, I stowed "Primary Colors" in my briefcase. The guy two seats over noticed, and accused me with a grin of writing it.

I mock-confessed. "Knocked the whole thing off over one weekend," I said, with a wink.

"You mean they got you off the golf course for that long?," he chuckled.

His remark made me descend the rest of the 10,000 feet without benefit of jet engines.

The simple, awful truth: He saw me as a Golf Guy.

That means he saw thick belly, gray hair and crows' feet and said to himself, "Golf is the only game this guy can possibly play."

Granted, he was trying to be friendly, clever and flattering. But he sure knew how to leave exit wounds. I do not play golf and have no plans to start. To me, golf is not sport. It is surrender.

When you fall in love with the dimpled white ball, you almost certainly fall out of love with all other balls of all other sizes, shapes and colors. I'm not quite ready to shift my affections, even though everyone from friends to orthopedists tells me I should.

Why do I still play competitive slow-pitch softball? For moments like the one that took place last spring.

I came to bat late in a game we had already thoroughly lost. As softball players well know, this is a time to pad ye olde batting average, if possible. So I took an extra-hard swing and rocketed the ball over the left fielder's head.

Twenty years ago, I would have "touched them all," as players describe home runs. By now, I'm lucky to make third base on hits such as this. But there I was, bulk planted on that bag, chest heaving, teammates cheering, Robert feeling right with the world.

I felt even righter when the third baseman, who was young enough to be my child, said: "Hey, man, I took one look at your hair and I figured, 'No way this old dude can hit the ball.' Nice hit, man."

"(pant!) Hey . . . (pant!) . . . thanks, man (pant!)," I said. But what I was thinking was, "Can golf touch this?"

Why do I still play pickup basketball? Not because I enjoy the thickening feeling of breathlessness deep in my chest. Not because I enjoy my daughter's friends asking me if I used to be able to dunk (I still can, ladies -- on a good day). I do it for the sheer pleasure of still being able to do a few things right.

During a three-on-three game a few weeks ago, I took a pass from a teammate about 18 feet from the basket. My back was to the hoop. But the eyes in the back of my head were working just fine.

A teammate cut to the basket. I noticed. Whoosh went my pass, through three sets of hands, into his. He laid it in.

Then he paid me the ultimate compliment. He pointed at me. It meant: "Nicely done."

When is the last time one duffer pointed at another on a golf course? When they spent 10 minutes hunting for a ball lost in the woods?

Speaking of which, let me tell you about the one and only time I ever played golf. I bumped into a pal while on vacation in the South. He invited me to play 18 holes the next morning.

I said yes before I heard what time of day he had in mind: 7 a.m. Do you get up at 5:30 a.m. when you're on vacation? I'm not in the habit. But that is when you show up if you don't want to have to wait for three hours.

When we met on the first tee, I noticed that the TV networks had somehow forgotten to cover this. So only two people would ever know how miserably I was about to play. I teed up a ball, yanked out my rented driver, held it the way I would hold a baseball bat and took a swing.

The hole was a par three, which means you can reach the green in one stroke, if it's the right stroke.

My shot arched gorgeously toward the flag. It landed about 10 feet short. It bounced and trickled toward the hole. It stopped six inches away.

"Hey," my friend said.

After I had tapped in the putt -- one under par for my lifetime -- I said to my pal, "Don't they say this game is tough?"

I soon learned why they say it. In the next five holes, I lost every ball in my bag, thanks to hooks, slices, slashes, dribblers and just plain ineptitude.

After groping around in a lagoon for my last ball, and noticing an alligator coming my way, I decided to retire. It's a decision I've never violated, or regretted.

Sure, I could try again. But do I have the patience? (no). Do I have the time to practice? (no). Do I have the technical skill? (highly doubtful). Do I have the money for clubs, lessons, gloves, carts or clothes the color of sherbet? (clearly no).

So, to my friend aboard the 737, I say: "I've got a plan. I'll continue to defy gravity and sanity by playing softball and basketball. When I'm in traction, after the inevitable accident, I will at least consider taking up golf. But like the author of 'Primary Colors,' I'll do it anonymously. Even broken-down jocks have their pride."