When we were young, we swore we would never golf. We saw the sport as Mark Twain did, "a good walk spoiled." Of course, we also thought our metabolism would keep us at 175 pounds, no matter what we ate. Age changed both of these ideas. So when we decided to take up golf this year, we were--and are--forever thankful we found the Golf Academy of Dallas, located at The Range at Tenison Park. Director of Instruction Scott Robbins and his crew (we also worked with former LPGA player Kelly Holland, who was wonderful) make even the most uncoordinated golf beginner feel comfortable. They specialize in the beginner but also have classes for intermediate level and private lessons for whomever needs his or her swing tinkered. If you ask nicely, Robbins will also teach you the lingo you'll need to appear cool on the course (for example, they're not golf clubs, they're sticks). All the info you need on The Range is online at www.rangeattenisonpark.com. Nothing for you to do now but golf it.

If you're like us--and we hope you're not, because a trip to rehab is in your immediate future--the perfect game of pool happens between two events: the fifth bourbon-and-whatever of the night and the first broken glass. The former causes the game of pool to happen (because we're getting antsy and competitive), and the latter is caused by the game of pool (because we're antsy, competitive and a bit lax with our drink placement). Because of this, we tend to go to bars that have pool tables and not pool halls that serve drinks. Either way is fine; we're just telling you what we do. In that scenario, there is no finer place to play pool than upstairs at City Tavern. The tables are more than adequate, well-maintained without making too much of a production about it, spacious but not to the point where you start feeling all self-conscious, as if you should be wearing a tuxedo like one of those guys on ESPN2 at 4 a.m. But it's the rest of the package that seals the deal. It's like being in a well-heeled friend's basement: You can still watch whatever basketball/football/baseball/hockey game that's on from any vantage point, thanks to the flat-screen TVs hanging in the corners. The two friends not playing pool with you can jump knee-deep into a round of Golden Tee a few feet away. And the waitresses don't ignore you just because you're shooting some stick.

Readers' Pick

Clicks Billiards

Various locations

Nobody, but nobody, tries to "buy a game" the way golfers do. You say this Fred Flintstone-sized titanium driver is longer, straighter, truer and it's played by the guy who won on the Tour last week? I'm down. Wrap it up. You say these new $39-a-dozen balls will keep me on the short grass? I'll take two dozen. With the prices club makers want these days, it doesn't hurt to save a few bucks on this kind of habit. An even bigger plus at Wally's is having sales guys who are knowledgeable enough to help you pick the right stuff. We found them at the branch we frequent on Stemmons Freeway. This is a locally owned outfit, in business since owner Wally Arbuckle began selling clubs out of his garage in the 1960s. The trade here is pro-line clubs, meaning the kind used by good players and countless hackers who think a sweet shot is only a $400 driver away.

We found this place on the Net, and it's a haven for golfers on a budget (like us). Dallas Golf has a fantastic selection of used clubs they sell at their four stores around the metroplex or online, either through their own site or on auction sites such as eBay. They also have new clubs--the folks in Richardson set us up with a great set of a knockoff brand, since we've just taken up the game--so don't be surprised if you go to pick up a great used value but just can't help it when you come outta there with that never-been-swung titanium driver.

We like Lone Star Park; it's as family-friendly as horse racing can be, but we're not real keen on initiating our 5-year-old son into the rites of gambling. That's why we venture to the Dr Pepper/Seven Up Ballpark in Frisco, which rises incongruously from a suburban expanse of malls and glass boxes. Step inside, and you're immediately sucked into an illusion of small-town Americana. It's kind of weird when you think about it, and the game itself is entirely incidental (who are those guys, anyway?), but a Frisco RoughRiders game is a lot of fun. The place is clean (check out the interior-designed women's potties), there aren't any bad seats, you have plenty of munchies to choose from, and the kids will love gyrating to the tunes blaring across the PA system or watching cheesy minor-league stuff like a PG-rated visit from the "San Diego Chicken." Another good thing: Tickets start at $7 (plus the $1 "convenience charge," Ticketmaster commission and all that junk) and top out at $18. So you may be living an illusion, but at least it's an affordable one.

This popular sports bar has seven coin-operated tables and free pool before 7 p.m. It might not be for purists, but the place is usually jumping. There's a regular Saturday tournament and plenty of non-pool diversions, including Foosball, darts and shuffleboard. Bar food ranging from sandwiches to sandwiches--pastrami, roast beef, turkey and ham--complements the main course at the bar.

We really sweated about this one. Not because we're overly hairy, even though we are. Because we like so many sports talk shows. We love the laid-back stylings and intelligent banter of Dunham & Miller (and Gordon) on KTCK-AM 1310 The Ticket during morning drive. We're big fans of Newy Scruggs on ESPN 103.3 after that. We think Bob and Dan middays on The Ticket are extremely underrated--we almost always find the sports talk and the jackassery engaging. And we have a soft spot still for warhorse Randy Galloway on ESPN, especially when he lets Jennifer Floyd Engel from the Fort Worth Star-Telegram sit in (mee-yow). So we asked a buddy: What criteria should we use to decide? He said, simply: When you get in your car, you look at the clock on the dash. Depending on what time it is, when are you most excited to turn on the radio? That would be between the hours of 3 p.m. and 7 p.m., during The Hardline on The Ticket. Like all good radio shows, the chemistry of the entire cast--Mike Rhyner, Greg Williams, Corby Davidson and Danny Balis--is what sucks you in, keeps you around, makes you laugh. That and hearing Williams say things like "She's so horny she'd hump a rock pile if she thought there was a snake in it."

Readers' Pick

The Hardline

Following the A-Rod trade, someone asked the Texas Rangers owner if ticket holders--chiefly those who bought in after the "he's not going anywhere" comment by Hicks--would be given a refund. "There won't be any refunds," Hicks said, sounding like Paul Dooley in Breaking Away. "Of course not." The fans were all kinds of pissed off about that. For some reason, they don't like being lied to and then told that they're going to be fleeced, too. Ah, but the joke was on them, and us, too. Hicks, for the first time ever, actually knew what he was doing. By subtracting one of the league's best players, he actually improved the Rangers. Who knew? So let that be a lesson to you. Next time the Rangers and Hicks promise one thing and then screw you stupid, remember, they do so with your best interests at heart.

For sheer size and variety--and that friendly YMCA atmosphere--it's impossible to beat the big Y, which at one time not long ago billed itself as the biggest Y on the planet. There's a pool, indoor track, squash courts, racquetball courts, hoops courts and machines of every description: rowers, cycles, runners, weights and stairs. Combine that with all the classes, and pretty soon you'll be what our old Y instructor said we should be, back when it might have been true. As he put it: "Be proud of your body." An Observer staffer who belongs said make sure to mention the covered smoking area outside--but we won't.

Oh, you can keep your froufrou gyms, your pantywaisted health clubs. Go soak your head in the Jacuzzi. Pull up to the juice bar and take your slug of wheatgrass. Go ride your stationary bike, 'cause you ain't goin' nowhere. Yeah, sport, just wrap yourself in a freshly laundered, club-provided terry-cloth towel and leave us the hell alone. We're over at Doug's, sweating our asses off in the middle of summer and freezing our nuts off come February 2; we ain't got no time for such luxuries as air conditioning. We come here to do one thing: get ripped, baby, pumped to the pecs. Doug Eidd, owner of this joint since Jack Ruby was a free man, has no patience for the namby-pambies of your more expensive gyms; this is bare bones, man, down to the sinew. Doug trains with the counsel of the elders and the patience of the divine, as both men and women who care only about getting fit hang here and endure the regime he will design solely for you. Weight lifting, boxing, jumping rope--it's simple, and yet so danged tough. We're still not sure if we're exercising or enduring ritualistic torture--really, who in 2002 tosses the medicine ball, save for us dopes--but we like the way we look; so do the ladies. Well, not really. But they will, damn it. Oh, they will. Won't they?