THE SENIOR

I’d like to be able to do tricks with a golf ball, to flip the ball off the green with my putter and catch it. I’ve seen a number of professional golfers do this in match play. The nonchalance with which they do it is truly enviable.

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I’d like to have Britney Spears stop, mid-gyration on the stage, notice me in the front row and cry out “It’s you!”

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I’d like to arc into the water without making a splash. The wake of my passage down the lane as I do the butterfly washing over the lip of the pool.

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I’d like to throw the ball over my shoulder into the basket and hear someone say “Wow! He really has a sense of where the basket is!”

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Nothing wrong with crossing the blue line, the puck nicely on the stick with only the goalie to beat.

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I’d like to have a snappy moniker “Wolf” or “Moose” or something as memorable as “Joltin’ Joe” or “The Splinter” or “the Elephant” - as in “Hey, hey it’s the Elephant!”

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I’d like to crouch in the wave of a great tsunami and run my hand through the sea wall off my shoulder.

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I’d like to slide the tips of my skis off the sill of a precipice, look down at the village far below and, just before pushing off, hear a woman in form-fitting clothing cry out “Don’t go!  It’s too steep!”

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And I wish I could throw a knuckle ball. I’d like to have it come to me one afternoon, perhaps whilst I’m throwing the ball to my son, a ball without motion so that it ducks and dances.

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There are many more and the splendid thing is that they are all available as soon as the hour is late and the fire has gone down and it is time to go to sleep. It’s only a matter of picking one before the sweet darkness arrives.