The big hotshot jock in our house, no contest, is my wife, Sue. And she knows it. Sue was a high-school All-American, a four-time All-American swimmer at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, and a Big 10 champion and record holder.
Sue still swims every day, and I mean every day—in all kinds of weather. I’ve watched her swim while snow is falling.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Hey, it worked for Nemo.
I always felt that our job with our son, Jack, was to open doors for him—not to shove him through those doors, but just keep opening them. One door that he wouldn’t let us open very wide was athletics. He’s a good tennis player, a good skier, but for some reason, he doesn’t believe that he’s good. Jack—you’re good!
I was a decent high-school baseball player, a better-than-decent high-school basketball player, an above-average golfer. I guess I was always a frustrated jock, but I’m over it now.
I’m sort of over it.
Recently I threw out a first pitch at a Yankees game. Sixty-some-thousand fans. I got it to home plate, but the pitch was a total piece of crap. I took some heat from my oldest friends, and they are old.
So, fine—I’m not completely over sports.
Sue is totally sick of hearing this next sports story. It took place a few years back. At that time, Sue had four holes in one in golf; I had three.
On February 6 of that year, I had another hole in one. Sue, who is nice in most ways but who’s very competitive, said, “I don’t like it, but I can live with it.”
Two days later, on February 8, Sue and I went golfing together. I had another hole in one. Two in three days. That’s insane. Almost unheard of. Ask anybody who golfs. Ask somebody at Golf magazine or Sports Illustrated. Ask Tiger Woods. I’ll bet he’s never done it.
Anyway, Sue and I are standing on the tee box and we watch the little white ball disappear into the relatively small hole that’s a hundred and sixty-three yards away. Does she give me a big hug? No. Does she say, “Nice shot, honey”? No way.
She looks at me and very appropriately says, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
And that’s the last thing I’ll say about sports. Oh—did I mention I could dunk a basketball in high school? I think I did. Stephen King could never dunk. Neither could Dan Brown. Or Mailer, or Baldwin.
Just one more sports story.
A couple of my old friends kept playing basketball well into their fifties. They were in a men’s league with mostly younger guys. My friends weren’t all that good anymore, but they had the best team T-shirts in the league. The shirts said NOBODY MOVES, NOBODY GETS HURT.
And that’s it for sports.