My mother, you see, was a jock long before Title IX unleashed the explosion of modern women’s athletics. She lettered in field hockey and basketball while attending Hofstra University in the late 1930s. This was a time when it wasn’t very fashionable for women to go running after a ball and work up a sweat. Luckily for me, Mom never worried about what was fashionable. She loved sports, loved being active and, most of all, loved the competition. Mom was kind to her kids until we played ball. Then we’d notice this gleam in her eye, the broad grin and the familiar tongue that told us she was ready for action and ready to have some fun. No matter what game she played, Mom had class. She played hard, she laughed a lot and, win or lose, she was always gracious.

The years have diminished Mom’s physical abilities, as they would have for anyone who is about to become an octogenarian. Her back is a little bent, and she complains occasionally about her hip. Her biggest concession to the aging process, however, is that she has had to lighten up on her bowling ball. As a young mother in suburban bowling leagues she toted a 15-pound ball, carried a 160 average and had a high game of 212. As she’s grown older, her scores have declined. In recent years she’s had to start using an eight-pound ball, which she protests is too light and “doesn’t give enough pin action.”

For years I have had to listen to my mother’s perennial battle cry as she begins each new bowling season–“This is the year I’m going to bowl a 200 game!” I’ve always smiled and nodded in agreement, which was my way of acknowledging her determination. During our regular Thursday-evening phone conversations (she bowls on Thursdays), she gives me a frame-by-frame description of her games, and gripes that she can’t bowl the way she used to. She almost always slips in the comment “I’m going to make 200 if it kills me.” I try to explain that she should be satisfied that she is at least able to play the game. “Try to make some concession to your age, Mom,” I say. Of course, she will have none of this talk and this year bought a 10-pound ball in pursuit of her dream. Vince Lombardi would be proud.

A week after she started bowling with her new ball, I called to check on her progress. She no sooner said “Hi” than I could tell something big had happened in her life. I could feel the smile all the way from Hendersonville, N.C., to upstate New York. I shouted, “You bowled a 200 game!” knowing it could be the only reason for such a happy voice. She corrected me: “Not a 200 game; I got a 220.” It was her highest score ever! She gave me a strike-by-strike description of her game, and we both celebrated over the phone. As she signed off and said her goodbyes, I could still sense the smile on her face. Her grin will probably fade in another month or two.

After some reflection, I am amazed by my mother’s accomplishment. Whether it is baseball, tennis, golf or even bowling, I have never heard of anyone’s peaking at 79. Yes, there is some degree of luck in every game, but in Mom’s case she had the best game of her life because she persevered. Mom’s achievement has lifted her spirits and made her feel young again. For someone who is too frequently reminded that she can’t do what she used to, this experience could not have come at a better time in her life. I guess I’m not surprised that I can still learn from Mom–that you are never too old to dream and never too old to realize those dreams. I am not surprised, either, that in our most recent calls she talks about bowling a 250 game.

Schneider is a retired biologist living in Cape Vincent, N.Y.

Photo: In recent years, Mom’s had to start using an eight-pound ball, which she protests is too light and “doesn’t give enough pin action'