A good deal of light-hearted attention has recently been paid to Paul Ryan’s claim of having run a marathon in less than three hours when in fact his actual time was over four hours. His claimed time would have forced him to average 6:51 miles, an impressive feat. His actual time only required an average of 9:09, which, although not bad, is slower than Sarah Palin’s best, and I do not remember her bragging about it. No one would call a four hour marathon “fast,” as he did.

Did he just forget? Nonsense. I am twenty-two years older than Paul Ryan, and I can still remember the high points of my participation in every sport.

Football: My tackle football career consisted of two years of playing for the Queen of the Holy Rosary Rockets. Our team of seventh and eighth graders played six or seven games against other Catholic grade schools in the archdiocese.

The league had a rule that no one who weighed over 125 pounds could carry the ball. I easily qualified. Our team ran out of a single wing, and I was the wingback. On most plays I just pretended to block someone, but we also did have a few plays in which I was an eligible receiver.

There were no highlights the first year. We lost every game, and we were shut out every time. It was not until I was an eighth grader that I achieved star status. You see, I had one outstanding quality: near invisibility. When I went out for a pass, no one covered me. It was a mixed blessing, as the passer could not see me either. Once, however, the coach noticed how open I was and called time-out. He told the quarterback (whom we called the tailback) to run the same play and look for me. He did, threw me the ball, and I caught it and ran for a touchdown. It happened in one other game, too. So, in two years my school only managed two touchdowns, and I scored both of them.

Neither touchdown, however, was my my highlight, for the simple reason that we lost both games. My moment of greatness came in our final game against St. Joseph of Shawnee, and I was playing defense (our team only had twelve student-athletes). Only a minute or two remained in a scoreless tie, but St. Joe was inside our ten yard line. On fourth down they ran a crossing route. Two huge ends (well, they could not have actually been too huge since they had to be less than 125 pounds, but they were a lot bigger than I was) both headed toward the middle of the field. The ball arrived, and one of them caught it just before he crashed into the other. I jumped on the guy with the ball just before he hit the turf at the two-yard line. On the next play I secured our victory (all right, tie) by gaining about thirty yards on a pass play.

Basketball: This is easy. I once actually dunked a basketball on an official hoop at Yost Field House in Ann Arbor. I dunked a volleyball many times, but on every other occasion the basketball always slipped out of my hand. Several of my friends witnessed this feat.

Baseball: My team, which was sponsored by the Prairie Village Optimist Club, was playing the first-place team, Bill Cook’s Standard. I played “vacation,” which meant that I filled in for whoever in the starting lineup was on vacation. In that game I played, for the first and last time, shortstop. In the fourth or fifth inning of a scoreless game I hit a triple. After two pitiful outs, I purposely got myself in a rundown and managed to score to give us the lead.

In the last inning we were up 3-1, but with two outs Cook’s had the bases loaded. The batter hit a short fly into left field. I turned around and raced as fast as I could. I caught the ball in the tip of the webbing of my glove. It looked like an ice cream cone, but I did not drop it. My dad told me that my teammates carried me off of the field, but I don’t remember that part.

Softball: The summer of 1974 (when Paul Ryan was not yet in kindergarten) was the peak of my athletic prowess. My partner and I were in first place in the Hartford Insurance Group golf league, and I had a phenomenal batting average in the softball league. Although I am right-handed, all of my hits were to right field, which is where the opponents often located their worst fielder.

One at-bat stands out. As I came up I noticed that the right fielder was shaded toward right-center field. I did my best slugger impression, pointing my bat to left field. To my immense glee, I determined that the right fielder was now almost in center field. I promptly sliced a looping fly over the head of the first baseman. The ball took a right turn when it hit the ground and actually rolled into the street. The right fielder ran as fast as he could, but I scored easily before he could get the ball back into the infield.

Golf: I had broken my kneecap, and I had not played much golf. I filled in as a substitute in the golf league. On the first hole, I was playing against someone of approximately my ability, but I was rusty. On the first hole put his second shot on the green. I was all over the course, and after four shots I had only found the fringe. Incredibly, I chipped in and he three-putted. We both carded bogeys. It made a difference, too, as we ended up halving the match.

Tennis: I almost won a tennis match once. It was August 18, 1973, the day after my 25th birth day. I had imbibed quite a few beers on the previous evening, and I did not feel much like playing (or doing anything else that required being awake). I had, however, made a date to play tennis with another actuary who was as bad at tennis as I was. I was actually slightly ahead midway through the second set when he sprained his ankle. He wanted to quit playing, but I insisted that he continue. I explained that he did not have to try to run around. He could just sit somewhere on the court, and I would keep playing until the set was over. He called me a bad name and went home.

Soccer: My high school offered a version of intramural soccer. The field and net were smaller, each team had only five players, and there were no goalies. I once scored five goals in a game. The fact that the other team only fielded four guys diminished the achievement only slightly in the estimation of myself and my teammates.

Running: My best (unofficial) time in the marathon is a little over twenty-five hours. I ran eighteen miles on one day and nine the next.

Don’t try to tell me that a type A like Paul Ryan forgot his time in the only marathon that he ever entered. He is nothing more than a liar and a braggart.

* * *Mr. Ryan’s handlers have issued an explanation of the discrepancy between the real time and his claim. They blame the twenty-one years that have elapsed and a back injury (?). For the record, all of my highlights were much more than twenty-one years ago. I am pretty sure of all of the details except one. It is possible that the opponent in the baseball game might have been K.C. the Rug Doctor rather than Bill Cook’s Standard.