The perils and pratfalls of taking up a new game

Simeon de la Torre

There will be several times in a man’s life when he has to take up a new sport. (I say ‘has to’ because it’s not something we generally choose to do; we’re creatures of habit, and once we find something we like, we stick with it – as the continued success of U2 and Status Quo illustrate.) But while there are almost 8,000 sports out there, choosing the right one is an anxiety-inducing business.

For most, the shift to a new calorie-burning pursuit will be forced by injury. Cruciate ligaments tend to hobble most stud-wearing ball-hoofers by the time they’re 35, and amateur rugby players can make the lonely walk to a permanent early bath citing anything from broken vertebrae to complete face collapse.

Other times, a man will ditch a sport due to it falling out of fashion. I, for example, found myself in a dojo (martial arts training hall) for some of my teenage years, having been inspired by The Karate Kid. When I joined-up, there were several kids from my year there and it was a laugh, but four years (and a pitiful three coloured belts) later, I realised that I was in fact surrounded by a pathetic collection of mulleted psychopaths and staring social lunatics.
Which, of course, was par for the course (no offence, karate experts).

Meanwhile, the rest of the guys from my year had moved on to acid house and girls.

Yet while dancing and chasing girls is sport enough for any man of that age, it’s only so long that it can negate the ruinous effects of beer. Before the age of 18, most guys take their toned torsos for granted – having almost unknowingly honed them at PE twice a week and during daily break time kickabouts. Feed that six pack a couple of gallons of ale every week, however, and it soon turns to paunch.

It’s around this time that a man will start looking for a new pursuit. But rather than hitting the gym, getting back into football, or polishing his rusty tennis game, he’ll take up something entirely unsuitable. Like archery, or angling, or sailing.

That’s not to suggest that any of these sports – with millions of participants worldwide – lack merit, it’s just that they don’t do what we need them to do at that stage in our lives: i.e. burn calories. I should know, I started playing darts.

Admittedly, my thinking was more than a little woolly. In one breath I’d lament my burgeoning gut, and in the next I’d order another pint of lager before swaggering up to the oche. Man, I fell in love with that game.

The love affair couldn’t last of course, and I, like my sailing and fishing peers, was forced to return to the sports that I was schooled in: football, rugby, cricket. I chose running as my prime exercise drug of choice, and for a long while, it worked for me. The gut magically disappeared and I was back in the game.

Injuries have come and gone, but now, ten years – and several thousand miles – down the line, I seem to find myself grumbling about my knees ever more often.

It seems that I’ve reached another of those points in life when it’s time to look for something new to occupy the hours when I’m not working, drinking or spending time with the family. And depressingly, golf and bowls are both looking appealing. Yes, that would be the same game of bowls that requires no more physical exercise than to take a short walk up a carpet and bend over once in a while. I’m not even 40 yet – surely that sort of pastime is the preserve of the over 60s? And while golf may be a great game, it’s hardly exercise.

Conversely, I’m too old for any sport that could be described as extreme; the last time I was introduced to a horse I ended up having a fight with it; I vomit when I’m in the water (long story); and I’m not a team player. Which doesn’t leave me with a lot of options.

So for now, I’m taking up squash, which seems about right for a man with my sporting history. It’s satisfyingly-retro, pleasingly punishing and requires me to wear tight white shorts that embarrass my wife.

I have no idea how long this current sporting relationship will last, but I do have an exit route planned: next stop golf, and then I’m back on the darts. And by then, I’ll have earned that beer gut.