I live an utterly sedentary life. As a programmer, I sit in front of a computer all day for work, and when I'm not working, I'm writing, also right here at the keyboard. I did recently join a gym, and now do the recommended 30 minutes of aerobic exercise four days a week, but only out of fear of the senile dementia that some studies have linked to middle-aged belly fat.

Before I reached (achieved? got stuck in?) my current state of inactivity, however, I enjoyed a typical childhood playing the major American sports with schoolmates and neighbor kids. In the thousands of baseball, football, and basketball games I tallied before settling contently into my cerebral adult life, I managed no great achievements in the conventional sense: my teams never won a championship; I never made a game-winning or even an outstanding athletic play. Nevertheless, there are three moments that, in a particular way, stand out in my memory as not only my greatest, but really, my only great moments in sports.

The first occurred when I was in the seventh grade.

The facts of the case are pretty mundane: I was playing softball and hit a home run. There was nothing special about the game - it was played during P.E. by two teams chosen up on the spot - and there was nothing special about the home run - it was neither my first nor my longest, nor did it win the game or have any big effect on anyone except to annoy the outfielders who had to chase it down.

The real story of this particular hit, the thing that turned it into one of my great moments in sports, was what was going on inside my head at the moment I hit it: Nothing!

As the pitched ball arced toward me, my mind went blank. I don't remember starting my swing. I barely felt the bat connecting with the ball. I do remember standing there a split second later, so surprised at how far it was traveling that I almost forgot to run. It was as if my body was taken over by some force that knew exactly how to hit a softball, so that, for the first (and only) time in my life, I didn't have to think about it or work at it myself.

It just happened.

I would hit more home runs before my days in the field were over, but they would all feel like every other hit or out I ever made: a result that arose from keeping my eyes on the ball and judging its arc and swinging as hard as I could and being very aware of how solid (or glancing) the contact was. I would never again turn on a pitch with the unconscious ease of that one great moment.

Though that was the year I started getting good at all the sports, I wouldn't experience another moment like that home run until I got to high school. This time, the sport was basketball.

We were playing a pickup game after school one day and my team was taking the ball out when I realized the guy who was guarding me had lost track of my whereabouts. The teammate who was inbounding the ball noticed it, too: Our eyes met and we instantly understood the chance we had. I broke for the basket and he looped a pass to me, and then . . . all I remember is streaking by a defender who had raced over to cut me off, and someone whooping - and the next thing I knew, I was trotting back in the other direction, having apparently made the shot.

How exactly did I do it? Did I bank the ball off the backboard, or float it directly into the basket? Did I lay it up underhanded, or shoot it palm forward the way they say you should? Not only do I not remember now, I didn't even know what happened at the time! It was another one of those moments when my conscious mind shut off and my body took over, when instinct and muscle memory triumphed over intentionality.

In such moments, I believe I approached the mystery that is hinted at when baseball players talk about "trusting their hands" and basketball players about being "in the zone". For a scant few times in my life countable on the fingers of one hand with digits to spare, I entered a state that a professional athlete might experience many times in a game, and a truly great athlete for whole stretches of games. It's no wonder those moments were mere blurs in my mind. The mortal who attains the heights of Mount Olympus is likely to have his knowledge of the trespass erased by the gods, and he who sneaks a sip of their nectar will retain only a vanishing memory of its taste.

Once I got into college, the possibilities for such moments began to disappear. My life began to take on the shape (or, the "out-of-shape") it bears today. There would be no more endless casual games during which instinctual lightning might strike.

Nevertheless, it would happen one more time.

I was out of school and working at one of my first jobs as a programmer. It was a small company with a mellow atmosphere, and for a couple of months, a bunch of us took to tossing a foam rubber football around the parking lot after work. If there were enough of us and the numbers evened out, we'd choose up sides for a real game.

One evening, I was our team's quarterback, which probably wasn't the best idea because I never mastered the trick of throwing a football with spiral. (Which allows the ball to fly straighter and farther, like a bullet from a rifled barrel.) Of course, those who do it right will say that there's no trick at all, that if you simply grip the ball correctly and throw with a natural motion, the spiral will just happen. It never happened for me, though.

What I had to resort to was intentionally rolling the ball off the tips of my fingers to impart that magical spin, and while this worked well enough for me, it limited how hard or far I could throw the ball.

On one play, we were about six car lengths away from the goal line when I walked up to the line of scrimmage to start the play. My two teammates were the wide receivers, split to my far left and right. Standing across from them were the two members of the other team responsible for covering them, while the third defender lined up opposite me. He would be the rusher, and would have to count off five seconds before he could come after me. If he caught up with me, he'd only have to touch me with both hands to record the sack. (No tackling on the concrete pavement!)

"Ready!" I called out. "Set! Hike!"

"One alligator! Two alligator!" came the rapid-fire count of the rusher as I backpedaled and looked up field for my receivers.

The first ran his short route, but couldn't get free of his defender.

"Three alligator! Four alligator!"

The second was just finishing his longer route, which took him all the way into the end zone, but he was well covered, too.

"Five alligator!" cried the rusher triumphantly as he began running toward me full tilt.

My receivers, having executed their appointed routes to no avail, were now improvising, trying to get free any way they could, but still with no success. Then the rusher was right on top of me. I faked dodging one way and lurched the other, sending him flying past me and buying myself more time, but looking up field again, I saw only a confusion of bodies, running this way and that.

The rusher came back at me from behind, running more under control this time so he wouldn't overshoot me, but was only able to lay one hand on me as I twisted away once more.

I had only fractions of a second to act.

In a flash, I looked up and saw one of my receivers breaking into the clear. And then - well, you know the drill by now: And then, I blanked out. I don't remember to this day exactly what I did. I couldn't remember it two seconds after the fact on that day! All I know is what my teammate told me afterward: that I zipped a pass that he caught in full stride, without having to slow a step or alter his direction a degree, stretching out his arms to the limit of their reach, for a touchdown!

"Did you actually see me or did you just throw it up for grabs?" he asked incredulously, more able to believe in chance perfection than any ability I might have had to make it happen.

"I saw you," I assured him. It was the one thing I knew for sure! It was the last thing I remembered. I can still rerun the film in my mind today: the sight of him breaking into the open, streaking left to right and slightly diagonally across the back of the end zone. However, the screen goes to black at that point.

I didn't see the ball in flight; I didn't see it being caught. I don't remember throwing it.

Nevertheless, I'm certain it was a perfect spiral.