It has been estimated, by physical experts, doctors and, most importantly, professional sports general managers, that one’s athletic prime occurs approximately from the ages of 23 to 28. Barry Bonds won the National League Most Valuable Player award this season at 40. Satchel Paige pitched well into his 50s in the middle of last century. Athletically, as college students, we should be on the brink of our greatest athletic years.

Given this data, something sobering has occurred to me over the past few months: At the age of 20, I have passed my athletic prime.

Two decades into my life, I’m over the hill. Washed up. Useful as a Speedo by Onondaga Lake.

And now, for the next 15 weeks or so, you’ll be stuck reading about sports from me, someone who looses his breath after changing channels too fast. My reign as a decent athlete, even recreationally, is over.

This is hard to swallow for someone who saw his career choices as playing for the Red Sox or Mets until the sixth grade. Playing professional sports aren’t fantasies for 11-year-old boys – they’re options.

For me, I couldn’t decide between playing quarterback for the Giants or shortstop for the Red Sox. And it didn’t matter I was only the second-best athlete on my street – my best friend liked first base and wide receiver, anyway.

By high school, of course, those dreams had faded away. But still, I built a respectable athletic resum. Captain of the football team. Honorable mention All-State as a center. Got in a few local papers as an All-Star playing second base. I even entertained the deluded idea of walking on at Syracuse to try and long snap.

Now I see my name at the top of sports articles, not in them. And I see my feet only if I lean forward.

How did this all happen so fast? When I was young, my only fear from playing ball was catching hell from my father if I stayed out too late. Now I have to worry about sustaining injuries so gruesome they wouldn’t show them on Real TV.

So I stretch before playing now. I still feel like tenderized beef the morning after playing touch football.

It seems like yesterday, running was something I would do for fun, voluntarily, without any prodding or health issues in mind.

Yeah, back in my glory days – which occurred some 1,000 yesterdays ago – I would approach workout after workout with vigor. Looked forward to it. Hit the weights five times a week.

Now, when faced with the prospect of hitting the gym, I respond like Jim Boeheim does when confronted with most any situation. Which is to say, I become cranky and my face contorts.

Time was, I would do seemingly hundreds of arm curls a week. Now…well, actually, I still do. Thing is, barbells have been replaced by 12-ounce aluminum cans, and expanding arms have given way to an expanding waistline.

Given my chosen profession, this might not be such a bad thing. For a sportswriter, the phrase ‘fat and lazy,’ upon graduation, translates roughly to ‘summa cum laude.’The job practically demands lethargy – if you get up in the middle of a game, how can you accurately write about it?

Of course, this leads to the stereotype of sportswriter-as-couch potato, just a poorly dressed slob who sits around watching games, leaving his house only to purchase more food.

Naturally, this notion offends me, because it is flatly untrue. Sportswriters, unless they’re covering the Syracuse men’s basketball team, don’t have to pay for their food when they watch the games.

But really, despite what coaches and players worldwide may have you believe, it doesn’t take a 40-inch vertical leap or a sick crossover to understand men playing games. Unless my fingers become too fat to type accurately – think Gilbert Grape’s mother dialing a phone – my athletic ability, or lack thereof, will not be an issue.

So, dear reader, fear not. I may not be able to play sports anymore, but hopefully that doesn’t mean I can’t understand them. If you think it does, let me know. My e-mail address is at the bottom of the page.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve done some rigorous typing. I think I need to take a nap.