As Argentine that I am, I never did play futbol well. In Texas my attempt at playing touch football resulted in a dislocated shoulder. I tried cricket but I could not understand the rules. In basketball I only excelled in the double dribble. My O'Reilly cousins in Argentina were fenómeno rugby players. I did not even try to try. To this day my swimming only succeeds in preventing me from drowning.
Perhaps the only “sport” I became adept at was ping-pong before it was promoted to table tennis.
There was another sport, croquet that I avoided like the plague even though just about every birthday or Christmas, before I became interested in women, was the gift of a croquet set.
Being an adventurous young boy I would string three croquet balls and convert them into Argentine boleadoras. The problem was that I was not able to find a willing Argentine ostrich to run away from me that I could then swing my gaucho weapon to trip it up and then get into the business of selling feather dusters.
Ultimately those extra balls and mallets served me well in Mexico City, in the mid 50s. We played bicycle polo on the street. I was pretty good!
One year in our lovely Kerrisdale garden I was visited by the lovely redhead, Virve Reid (she of the voice to listen to and a body to die for). Somehow the sun did the right thing at the right time and I am not sure if I used a mirror or a light to shine on her face.
At long last my croquet set served me well.