When you work in the sports world, it's hard to escape it.

Competition stays with you wherever you go, whatever you do.

With the heavy snowfall of late, shoveling my driveway has become a routine and a joyless one at that.

Until ...

While preparing to shovel the latest delivery of white flakes the other day, I noticed a younger gentleman two houses up the road, who was preparing to do the same.

Our driveways were about the same length, our shovels about the same size.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

It was on.

Head down, both hands gripping the handle of the shovel, I turned myself into a virtual human snowplow.

Lunging forward, my rather hefty body pushed this defenseless snow out of the way with reckless abandon.

After moving my shovel across the width of my driveway twice, I glanced up to check the progress of my worthy adversary.

We were pretty much even.

Feeling the need to turn it up a notch, I picked up the pace, flicking snow out of my way twice as often as I had been.

Victory was going to be mine.

I glanced up again — and had a slight lead.

OK, kid, you're being taken to school by the 50-something generation!

Faster, faster, I kept telling myself. Finishing my driveway before this 20-something guy finished his became an obsession.

I wanted to know what it felt like to be George Blanda. This was going to be my personal version of George Foreman knocking Michael Moorer into next week.

This guy was going down!

Then something happened.

While my heart was saying "go, go, go," my body began saying "no, no, no."

The back started to ache. The arms were getting sore. This human snowplow was showing signs of rust.

I was gassed.

As I leaned against my shovel — I doubt I could have remained standing otherwise — I watched Mr. 20-something put the finishing touches on a freshly cleaned driveway.

Half of mine was still covered with snow.

He looked in my direction, gave me a wink and nodded.

The story of the tortoise and the hare came to mind. I was fast and frantic. He was slow and steady. My engine conked. His purred like a kitten.

In reality, the guy was probably thinking:"Get real, old man."

While we looked at each other, a high-powered snowblower fired up across the street as a business owner quickly cleared off the driveway in front of his store.

Sure. Anybody can do it that way. Buying success requires nothing but money.

Once I finished my driveway, I had done it the old-fashioned way, drawing every ounce of natural energy I could from my own tubby torso.

I succeeded from within.

The guy with the snowblower was the Yankees. I was the Tampa Bay Rays.

OK, the 20-something guy who beat me was the Rays.

I was the Pirates.

John Enrietto is sports editor of the Butler Eagle.