JOSEPH N. BELL -- The Bell Curve

Some years ago, my grandson came visiting from Colorado and wanted to

show me his high-jumping skill. So I built some makeshift standards and

put a bar across them, which he promptly jumped. Then he said, “Now you

do it.”

He had heard my tales -- mostly true -- of once holding the Fort

Wayne, Indiana, record in the 120-yard high hurdles and wanted a

demonstration. The bar was about as high as our family dachshund. Piece

of cake. I could have stepped over it, but I jumped instead. And fell

flat on my face. What I projected was not what happened.

I thought of that incident last Saturday as I hobbled off the tennis

court. My game doesn’t exactly match that of Pete Sampras, but I’ve

always had two strengths that kept me reasonably competitive in good

company: a strong forehand and speed. Saturday I just had the strong

forehand. Lobs and drop shots that I used to run down routinely were out

of my reach, even though I strove mightily to get to them.

I’ve been weighing this performance ever since while I nursed the

aches and pains in its aftermath. I could scale down my expectations,

look for a slower game or turn to some other form of exercise. None of

these options have any appeal to me. The first two turn a form of intense

competition into exercise -- a change of which I suspect I’m incapable.

The third is a kind of discipline I’ve always rejected and have no

stomach for now.

Maybe this dilemma grows out of my Midwestern upbringing. From the

time I was a scrawny kid in elementary school, I’ve hung out with friends

who were highly competitive in a social environment rewarding to that

frame of mind.

I knew the pain of reading a list outside the coach’s office that told

me I had been cut from the basketball team -- and the joy of seeing my

name there another time. My high school friends and I played poker for

pennies and nickels that didn’t come easy and competed fiercely for prom

dates with the beauty queen.

There was a strong bond between us, but we only played keepers. No

soft touches. We neither gave nor asked concessions.

It was a lesson that helped me through four years of military service

in World War II. Navy Preflight, designed by Gene Tunney to make supermen

out of soft college kids, was a case in point.

This was accomplished by playing highly physical games with a kind of

competitive intensity that sometimes approached life and death. If we

lost that competitive edge, we might find ourselves in some other branch

of service -- a specter that hung over us constantly.

Maybe surviving that experience conditioned me to regard exercise

simply for the sake of exercise as an enormous waste of time. The idea of

jogging or lifting weights or running on a treadmill bored me. When I

walked, it was to get somewhere.

I got away with this because I continued to be active in competitive

sports -- especially tennis and basketball. Now I’m looking at the

possibility of concessions. And I’m not ready.

The people in my life mostly make few concessions for my age -- which

is just the way I want it. Or if they do, it is usually subtle enough

that it can be overlooked.

I have a former student, for example, who is now a fine novelist and

college professor. He comes over periodically to shoot baskets. We play

for money, and when it gets to $10, the loser buys lunch. He’s good, and

he never tanks it when we play. He wouldn’t do that. But when a ball

bounces off the court and has to be run down, he does it with such casual

certainty that it’s a natural act and not a concession to me.

My neighbors who take care of the heavy-duty maintenance that comes up

around my house pass it off on my ineptness with such practical matters

as tools rather than my age. Since they’re absolutely right about my

ineptness, I accept the help gratefully.

I’m sure all this is made easier by the fact that I’m mentally as

competitive as ever -- with one important change. I don’t tilt nearly as

many windmills as I once did. I’m selective now, which I suppose is a

concession to conserving energy -- or maybe just good sense.

So where do these reflections leave me -- and how, if at all, do they

apply to some of the broader lessons of life? Like most useful

reflections, they raise more questions than they answer, at least for me.

If I accept limitations because of my age, is it setting a precedent

that will only make it easier to accept more and more? And is this true

at every stage of life, whatever the difficulty being encountered? And

where is the line between good sense and throwing in the towel? Between

discipline and bullheadedness? Between competitive intensity and pleasure

at being in the game?

At this moment, I’m not sure.

Meanwhile, I have a new situation to ponder. While checking out at a

supermarket yesterday, I dropped a box of cereal on the floor. While I

cranked down to pick it up, the lady behind me -- who must have been at

least 90 -- did it for me. Five years ago, I would have fought her all

the way down to the floor. But yesterday she got the drop on me. I

thanked her, but she’d better not try that again.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column

appears Thursdays.