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In the wonderful musical comedy, "My Fair Lady," Liza Doolittle's reprobate father, Alfred P., sings: "They're always throwing goodness at you, but with a little bit of luck, a man can duck."

Well, not always.

My energetic wife worries that I don't get enough exercise. Most of the day I spend at my computer, either writing fiction or these columns for the newspaper (which some readers believe to be fiction) or answering incoming mail, paying bills, and — I confess — occasionally playing chess or solitaire on the machine.

Exercise!

My gorgeous wife grew up in Manhattan, where she walked almost everywhere she had to go. To this day when we visit the Big Apple, we usually walk rather than take a taxi or bus. Walking is often faster than sitting in a vehicle inching through the clogged traffic.

Here in Naples, virtually every day she walks the length of the Gulf Shore beach while I sit at my desk and exercise my brain — and the two fingers that I type with.

Not good enough, she insists. We need more exercise. Which means that I need more exercise.

A couple of years ago, we started taking dancing lessons. Now I can shamble through a waltz or a tango with a modicum of grace. Which makes us both happy.

I can watch Fred Astaire movies and think to myself: "With just a few hundred years more of hard work and unremitting practice, I could dance like that. Almost. Sort of."

More recently, though, dancing lessons have been replaced by tennis lessons. It's better exercise, she tells me. Besides, she's loved tennis since she was a child.

Me, I grew up in South Philadelphia. Tennis was something rich folks played. I didn't even see a tennis court until I was an adult. We played stickball in the narrow streets, and volleyball on the concrete school yard. At one time, I was captain of a volleyball team known as "Bova's Bullies."

The way we played volleyball, getting the ball over the net wasn't as important as fracturing the guys on the other side of the net. Sometimes blood flowed.

Sometimes it was mine!

Well, that was long ago and far away. Here in Naples, we joined the lovely and hospitable Quail Creek Country Club and started taking tennis lessons.

Several years earlier, my wife decided to teach me how to play tennis herself. I wound up with a popped knee that needed draining, and spent several weeks on crutches. Now, when I go prancing out onto the court, I wear a brace on that knee.

The tennis instructors at Quail Creek are marvelous. And the other players we've met have become good friends. I've got to admit that I'm enjoying the lessons and the mixed doubles that we play on most Sunday mornings. I'd rather be home doing the crossword puzzle, of course, but playing tennis is enjoyable, too.

And it's good exercise. It's healthy. At my age — I am constantly reminded — it's necessary to take care of one's body.

OK, so I'm playing tennis. With my knee brace. And then I notice that the guy on the other side of the net is also wearing a knee brace. And my wife pulled something in her leg, so she's got an Ace bandage wrapped around her knee, too.

"Where's Norm?" I ask, looking around for one of the steady players.

"Oh, he tore the rotator cuff in his shoulder so he's out of action for a few weeks," comes the reply.

There's another pal with an Ace bandage over his elbow. And one of the women has to take a few weeks off because she hurt her leg and can hardly walk. I see a guy a couple of courts over with braces on both his knees and I remember that our son-in-law, who was a track star in school, has had four surgical procedures on his knees.

That's a real athlete!

This is healthy? Across the tennis courts there are dozens of people who have wrapped their knees, elbows, wrists. The conversation between sets is about Tylenol versus Advil, and orthopedic surgery.

Now, it's not just because we're sort of advanced in years. The instructors sometimes come up limping, too. So do the younger players.

Exercise might be good for you, but I never sprained a joint playing chess.

When I was much younger, fencing was my game. The sport with swords, not the business of selling stolen goods — although a lot of my chums in South Philly got involved in that sort of activity, I'm afraid. I'm talking about fencing, like Errol Flynn used to do in the movies.

It's the fastest sport in the world. Your opponent is only an arm's length away, your reaction time is in tenths of seconds.

There are fewer injuries in fencing, although if somebody snaps a blade the broken stump can be dangerous.

While I was fencing with the Philadelphia YMCA team, one fellow got slashed in the ribs by a broken blade. He said he tasted blood in his mouth: punctured lung, we thought!

We picked him up and ran him to the nearest hospital emergency room, a few blocks up Broad Street. He had bitten his tongue.

We then had to walk back to the YMCA, in our outfits of knee-length white ducks and button-over fencing jackets.

I got to be fairly good at fencing. One year I was New England's saber champ, novice class.

But now I play tennis. I'm told that I'm getting better at it, and I'm sure it actually is good for me. It's just that I've got this pain in my thigh. And, come to think of it, my elbow's been hurting ...

It's a fine sport, if it doesn't kill me.

Naples resident Ben Bova is the author of more than 110 books, some of which include fencing scenes. His latest novel is "Titan." Bova's Web site address is www.benbova.net.