I have a little secret. Well, it's more of an admission, really. But please don't tell anybody.

Because if word gets out, my image as a mature, responsible adult will be seriously tarnished.

What could be so damaging, you ask? Shhh...Come closer. I'll whisper.

It is this: I play dodge ball. That's right, dodge ball.

Once a week, with individuals who, out of respect for their professional reputations, shall also remain anonymous. Let's just say that the "arena" is somewhere between West Seattle and Burien, the players range in age from 15 to 55 (physically, at least), the energy level is high and the action fast and furious.

Dodge ball, for the uninitiated (or for those suppressing painful childhood memories), is a game in which two opposing teams, armed only with their wits (if lucky) and a half-dozen, basketball-sized rubber balls, square off across a gym's center line. The object is to get an opposing player "out" by striking him or her with the ball (below the neck, according to the rules).

If an opponent catches your thrown ball, not only are you out; an opponent who was out also gets to come back in. First team to get all members of the opposing team out, wins.

Until recently, I hadn't clutched, catapulted or been clobbered by a dodge ball in 40 years. "Back in the day," for reasons which are still unclear, we called it sokum (soak-em, soccum?). Apparently, schools then were not overly concerned about the consequences-physical, psychological or otherwise-of hapless students getting shellacked by high-speed projectiles disguised as harmless-looking rubber balls. But we sure made that old gym sizzle. Wily wham meisters like Scott Brunner, Allen Engberg and Kevin "Flame Thrower" Fawcett could rattle the walls (and your fillings), launching wicked, seeing-eye sidewinders that locked onto you like radar and made a lasting (ouch!) impression.

But I, too, notched my 15 seconds of fame. I once tallied dodge ball's equivalent of the hat trick, triple-double and hitting-for-the-cycle by snagging THREE incoming enemy spheroids at once, securing them with a nifty chin maneuver (I call the Heim-Lock).

This no doubt remains a Shorewood School record, which I'm sure is commemorated with a suitable plaque or marker.

But one cannot rest long on one's laurels (or any part, for that matter) in dodge ball. Today's players are a whole new breed of cat, owing, I suspect, to superior diet, instruction and conditioning. They obey no law except that of the jungle, which takes hold the instant the mad dash to the center line for dodge balls begins, jump-starting your heart rate and fight-or-flight mode.

And the cagey vets confronting you don't care if you're a prince or a pauper, a bank exec or a beach bum; they want only one thing: to get you OUT.

In order to survive the imminent onslaught, you therefore need the heart of a lion, the stealth of a leopard, the cunning of a fox, the ferocity of a wolverine and the grip of an orangutan. Oh-and the luck of a Lotto winner. Then you might have a chance. . .

Anyway, I'll let you know how it goes. So far, so good. But if you see me wandering around town with a red face and dazed demeanor, it's not because I'm sick, mad or embarrassed.

It's just that, well, I probably didged when I shoulda dodged.