Sporty, Not So Sporty

Every time I have taken up a new sport, my oldest friend says, “You are the most athletic unathletic person I know.”

Growing up in the late 1950s in a family of five girls, the only ball in our house was my father’s golf ball. Even though we belonged to a country club, were fans of Arnold Palmer and knew the proper grip of a club, miniature golf was as close as we got to the game. According to my father, golf was an acronym for Gentleman Only Ladies Forbidden.

At my all-girls high school, just the athletic girls played on the basketball team. The rest of us could consider baton twirling or cheerleading. I tried out for cheerleading. I was shocked when mousy Mary Agnes Murphy made it but I didn’t.

I didn’t realize how uncoordinated and directionally challenged I am until I took an exercise class. I was the one moving in the opposite direction of everyone else. The same problem persisted with yoga: My teacher would say, “No, Denise, the other left.”

I am also always a nanosecond off when clapping in a group. No wonder I didn’t make cheerleading.

My first husband was a super jock who was all-state everything in high school and played football in college. We got into running and ran a few local 5K races. My first and favorite was the one on Shelter Island, which is in its 46th year.

My last race was Ellen’s Run in Southampton, on a scorching summer day. I swore if I finished and survived, I would never race again. Now, I register for Ellen’s Run, contribute my money — and stay home.

One year we got into biking. After a perilous ride on Noyac Road, where I felt the wind gust from cars passing on the shoulder-free lane, I put my bike in the basement.

Next, I tried tennis with my girlfriends. Doubles was fun, but I noticed that I shuffled around the court while the other players stood in one spot with better results.

When I saw my eye doctor, he asked if I played sports. I said, “Yes, tennis.”

He replied, “How’s your game?”

“I get the ball over the net.”

He said, “That’s surprising, because your depth perception is very poor.”

Around the same time, my husband and I bought a house at a ski resort in Vermont. He and our two children flew down the black diamond trails while I snowplowed on the bunny hill.

After negotiating the chair lift and whimpering to the bottom of the mountain, I questioned if I was having fun.

Cross country skiing was a much better fit. I loved the stillness and pure beauty of the forest. When treacherous situations such as ice or steep inclines presented themselves, I slid down on my rear end until I reached safer terrain. The best part was, nobody had to know. Lacking skill and being competitive is a tough combination.

After I remarried, my husband, Terry, and I spent many getaways in idyllic inns in Vermont and New Hampshire, where we hiked. Generally, we would be rewarded with sparkling streams, thunderous or trickling cascades, and vistas that made the climb worthwhile. We avoided areas too close to a ledge that offered any kind of vertical drop, because I have a fear of heights.

Besides the ski lift, this phobia had only been tested a few times in my life. I distinctly remember baby-stepping off the elevator at the top of the World Trade Center and gripping the wall while my family walked right to the windows.

Last fall, we vacationed out west. We spent an overnight in the Bright Angel cabins on the south rim of the Grand Canyon so we could enjoy the sunset and sunrise. I cried when I saw the natural wonder. Or was I crying because my fear of heights alerted every fiber of my body?

We also visited Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park and the Hoover Dam, which meant that I was viscerally unnerved for most of our vacation.

Although I’m glad that we experienced this amazing topography, my favorite part was staying at excellent hotels. Our deluxe king suite at the Desert Pearl Inn with a river and mountain view had the deepest soaking tub. We enjoyed our last night in our sumptuous room at The Wynn in Vegas, on the 39th floor. We kept the drapes drawn and ordered room service.

Early in our marriage, Terry and I took golf lessons. The pro’s calm demeanor and attitude lured us in. After a few lessons, we arranged for him to play nine holes with us.

On the eighth hole, a short one with an L-shaped body of water, I teed off last. We heard the plunk of the ball hitting the plastic golf cup.

He turned to me, “I think that went in.”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“That’s a hole in one.”

I wanted to buy everyone a drink. It was late and the bar was empty. But for days afterward, whenever someone made eye contact with me, I proclaimed, “I had a hole in one.”

I knew it was a cosmic joke from my father to make me feel like I could play this game — and then frustrate the hell out of me.