Some friends make it a point to remind me that the reason I write about sports is because I can't play them.

Well, I'm here to say that the above is totally and unequivocally true.

That's not to say it's true of every sports writer on this staff - we have a former Division I women's college basketball player, and an assorted amount of former high school basketball, football and volleyball players.

Not me, though. Junior high basketball (Hey, I was the first player off the bench) was my limit.

I've heard it said that you can't coach speed or height - I have the height (6-foot-2), but speed kills, and my lack of them sure killed me. I should have seen the signs early on. My father, all 5-8 of him, tortured me repeatedly in my driveway when I was younger (and still four inches taller than him). It was the same move every time. He pump faked, I got two inches off the ground, and he was gone. Even after I figured out not to fall for the pump fake, my dad would pull some spin move out of his 40-year-old body and blow by me.

After my junior high stardom, I thought I could still play basketball, but the older I get, the less often I venture out on the court to have some quicker kid prove what I already know - that I should find a new sport.

I have searched for that new path. First, there was golf. Ah, yes, a sport where they give you a deadly weapon and tell you to swing it as hard as you can.

It was nice at first - out in nature, walking around on a sunny day. Then it came time to hit the first shot. I'd never seen a ball do what my ball did. It started out fine, straight and off the ground, and then about 150 yards out it just hooked on a right angle. If I was a pitcher and could throw like I hit, I'd make a fortune.

My second shot never got off the ground. It just ripped through the lawn, throwing leaves up as it went. My partner that fine day called my shot a "wormburner" - for reasons that are better left unknown. My golf career went downhill after that - I wrecked a golf cart on a course in Ensenada, Mexico, and my dad and I fled before anyone noticed the smoking engine on the 17th hole. Then on another occasion, after I drove alongside a chain-link fence, my second shot never happened - on my backswing, the club face got stuck in the fence, and I almost pulled my arm off.

Okay, so golf was out. It was too expensive anyway. Tennis seemed to be the next logical choice (Okay, my parents got me lessons for Christmas one year). I remember my first lesson. My 'coach' - I use that term loosely - was basically a tall, tanned guy who could never remember my name, so he just called me Boris. He would hit me ball after ball, and I would try to return them.

Trying to volley was the worst. He'd pull me up to the net and hit me a ball that I just couldn't react to properly (read: too slow). The ball would invariably hit off the frame of the racket and plunge into my face. That would elicit a "Ooogh, tough one, Boris," from my instructor.

But then, just as my straight golf shots would turn south, my tennis game picked up. I found myself becoming, good Lord - proficient.

This development led to the high point of my sporting career last weekend, when I entered a local doubles tournament at Randolph Tennis Center with Gahl, a guy in my tennis class.

We entered with low expectations, i.e., don't get shut out, but we started winning. One win led to another, and then another. Next thing we knew, the only team in the tournament without a loss was us. We had won.

It was a nice change, and I'll admit, winning felt good - a lot better than being called Boris.

Patrick Klein is sports editor of the Arizona Daily Wildcat.