I like to play all sorts of sports. Whether it's basketball, tennis, or running through the sprinkler on a hot day, athletics are a wonderful way to stay healthy, enjoy the outdoors, and make your sneakers really smelly.

But sports have certain risks. Sprained ankles. Shin splints. Tennis elbow. Angler's pelvis. (OK, I made that one up.) Most dreadful for me have been the sore legs, emotional trauma, and shattered windmills that haunt me whenever I play my favorite pastime: golf.

Well, mini-golf to be exact.

Ever since I can remember I have adored mini-golf. As a child, it was a rare and special event to play mini-golf, a family outing that gave me a chance to enjoy the company of my little sisters and do all in my power to make sure I beat the pants off of them. But just because I was older than them didn't mean I possessed superior skills when it came to guiding my little red golf ball up the ramp, around the corner, under the lighthouse, and into the darned cup. In fact, I was pretty bad at it.

Nevertheless, I always started the game overflowing with optimism. With butterflies flapping in my stomach, I'd gaze around the course, drinking in the bright colors and playful obstacles. I'd carefully place my ball on the first tee, line up my shot, take a swing - and then the misery would begin. Plop! My ball would drop into the first body of water it could find. Or it would hit a pebble and veer behind the magical castle and into a sand trap. Meanwhile, my giggling sisters would smack their golf balls with wild abandon, neglecting to line up their shots or even hold the club right - and, of course - their balls would somehow end up dropping into the cup while I looked on in frustration.

My usually cool temper would burn inside me, gaining strength with each botched shot until suddenly I was pounding my thighs with my fists, screaming at the robot who rejected my ball on hole 12, and swinging my club trying to knock the windmill to smithereens.

Boy, I sure loved mini-golf.

All these wonderful emotions came rushing back to me last Saturday when my friends and I decided to go mini-golfing. I hadn't played in years, but I was sure my putting skills had only improved with time.

With butterflies flapping in my stomach I carefully lined up my first shot. It plunked off the railing, traveled through the tunnel, and settled near the hole. Not bad, I thought. Until my friend Jenn recklessly teed off, swinging with one hand and her eyes closed and giggling up a storm. Her ball hit a rock, ricocheted off the seventh green, bounced off a toddler's foot, somehow came back onto our course, smacked my ball out of the way, and dropped into the cup for a hole in one. While Jenn leapt into the air I swung with my club at the nearest windmill.

I spent the rest of the game waiting in the car.

BILL ZUCK has decided to retire from golfing with a lifetime record of 0-27, with three knockouts to windmills. You can reach him at wcz78@yahoo.com.