Jack of all sports, master of none
7th December, 2007

The voice on the phone was sweet and cheerful: "We'd love you to join us. It'll be a great day." "Um ... " I mumbled in reply. Sensing that this invitation to play golf with a group of enthusiastic amateurs had not induced the elation she expected, my friend hesitated for a moment before adding: "You do still play, don't you?"    "Um ... a bit. A very small bit," I replied.    "Oh. What is your sport, then?" she asked.    "Well," I said. "Here's the thing. I don't really have one anymore."    "Oh," she said again, grappling with the concept of an Australian male who did not play sport.    "I played football at school," I added defensively. "But only because the teachers hit you until your eyes bled if you didn't."    "Perhaps the golf game wouldn't work for you then?" she suggested.    "In your interest and those of our mutual friends, I think it would be best if I didn't accept," I said. I then recalled how in the past I had accepted invitations to golf days, all of which had ended in disaster. "It's just a bit of fun," people would insist. The "fun" factor, in my experience, lasted for approximately one hole after which all the massive egos crowding the course would begin to ricochet off each other and competitive bloodlust took control. The last time I was naive enough to accept an invitation for a "friendly" game, my playing partner began abusing me before we'd reached the ninth tee.    "I told you I didn't play anymore," I said.    "But you're hopeless!" he shrieked.    "How very observant of you," I said. "Did you happen to see where my ball landed?" By the last hole, my "friendly" colleagues were tossing coins to decide whether they would throw me into a water hazard or bury me alive in a sandtrap. One ran into me with a motorised buggy but said it was an accident. I didn't believe him. To prevent myself ever again being tempted onto the golf course, I sold my clubs. Golf, then, is not my game but I played cricket a number of times in High School against other schools in the district, some of whom could bowl fast and accurately. This display of stupidity on my part saw me stand at the crease with my head down, cricket balls bouncing off my head, shoulder, arms and legs while at the bowler's end the opposition players lined up to have a go at me. The bruising lasted several weeks. My parents sent me to tennis lessons three times per week when I was younger in the hope that I would become an accomplished social player, failing to take into account the fact that I had been born with feet that acted independently of each other. This meant I fell over a lot. I didn't trip over my shoelaces or stumble when reaching too far to play a shot - I just fell over. Splat! When the ball was hit towards me, each foot would try to run in the opposite direction. As a consequence, I would stand there swishing the air with my racquet trying to convince my legs to co-operate until eventually I fell over again. Splat! Incredibly, the thought recently entered my mind to have my newborn son play some tennis when he grew up. What was I thinking? It would be history being repeated as I acted out the forlorn sporting hopes for him that my parents had held for me. Unfortunately, he seems to have inherited the falling-down gene, but that could be more due to the fact that he is still only a month old. We spend millions on the Australian Institute of Sport. The Rudd Government should now build an institute of Non-Sport, a huge building in Canberra in which people would be encouraged to do absolutely nothing.

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