I was watching this young girl, by the name of Leah Spillane, play hockey in a schools' final on Thursday afternoon, and her effortless brilliance re-opened so many old wounds and brought back so much pain that I couldn't even bear to look when she was presented with the cup. Not even the watching parents were as emotional as I was.

When I was her age a pathological fear of having to work for a living when I left school resulted in me embarking on what proved to be an entirely fruitless search for a sporting talent that would make me enough money by the time I was 30 so that the odd spot of media punditry and supermarket openings thereafter would keep me in fizzle sticks for the rest of my life. Back then I assumed that every sporting great was rich, that Jimmy Barry Murphy lived in a goldplated castle on top of Patrick's Hill, with servants to stir the sugar in his tea. I thought "amateur" was a term of abuse for anyone not very good at their job.

I tried hockey, but I don't want to talk about it. Except to say that there was no lack of effort, apart from the times I missed Saturday morning training because it clashed with Noel Edmonds's Swap Shop (and I wanted to see if anyone was willing to trade an autographed picture of Jimmy Osmond for my scratched copy of Remember You're a Womble. The offer is still open, by the way). I made the A team a couple of times but my selection coincided with a chicken pox epidemic in my year which ruled out everyone but me (and 10 others of similar ability). I had the chicken pox, too, but there was no need to tell the coach, although I felt a little guilty when I heard my direct opponent wasn't feeling well a few days later. When everyone recovered I reverted to my role as super sub for the Minor F team. Next, tennis. To this day I remain convinced that I could have served like Roscoe Tanner if I had mastered the tossing-the-ball-in-the-air bit. To me the exercise was like trying to pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time, which I could never do.

I think they call it "a lack of co-ordination"; I just call it "rubbing your head and patting your tummy". On the rare occasion that I got my toss just right I was so stunned the ball had bounced on the ground before I had time to swing my racket. I tried wearing head and wrist bands to intimidate my opponents, because I thought they would make me look like a serious tennis player. I also tried wearing a ferocious expression on my face as I rushed the net, screaming "Chaaaarge", but, to my opponents, that expression must have said "Lob me" because they always did. Next, basketball. This looked promising, for a week. I could slam beautifully but had trouble dunking. I gave up, mainly because most of my opponents seemed seven foot tall and they frightened me.

"What'd they feed ye on? Fertiliser?" I muttered as I left the court for the last time. Next, running. I thought this might be good because I reckoned you didn't need any skill, just a good engine and a bit of speed. Then a girl from the year under me lapped me, grinning as she passed, the way Eamon Coghlan grinned at that Russian the time he won gold. I tried to shift up a gear so that I could catch up with her and gouge her eyes out, but I was already in fifth gear and there was nothing left in the tank. By the time I reached the finish line I realised that 1,500 metres wasn't my distance. Neither was the 100 metres, primarily because my runners always jammed in the starting blocks and I was still kneeling there by the time the winner was showered, changed and on the bus home.

Table tennis. I watched some of those Chinese fellas on Grandstand and thought, "I can do that". But I couldn't. The table looked like a postage stamp from my vantage point, the balls too spinny and the bat was too small. I tried using a tennis racket but was told this was against the World Table Tennis Association's regulations. Huh, rules. I took my leave of the sport.

Shot putting. I was actually quite good at that but retired when I realised it would do nothing for my marital prospects. "So love, what do you do for a living?" "I'm a full time shot-putter," I'd say, before the dust generated by the lad's departing heals would impair my vision. Darts. Well, darts was big in those days, as were most of the men who played it. Needless to say Jocky Wilson was my hero, my role model, because he looked like he'd been born with as much sporting talent as me, and that inspired me.

But in three weeks of chucking darts in the direction of the board on my bedroom wall not once did I have an opportunity to shout "One 'undred and A tee" - or even "A tee". When I decided to remove the board and give it to the bin men there was a circle of pin pricks around where it had hung, so I knew I was doing the right thing.

So, it wasn't to be, I was never a contender. It's funny all the same that I spend much of my time watching effortlessly brilliant kids displaying their stupendous talents on sporting fields these days. Am I bitter? Oooh, am I what?