Other than quality time with my two sons, there’s not much I miss about the U.S.—especially in its current squabbling state. But I sure wouldn’t mind getting daily delivery of The New York Times. I started reading the Times when I was a junior in high school, and it remained a fixture of my morning routine for three and a half decades, until we made our jump across the pond.

In the U.K. the only places the paper can be found  are the big newsstands and posh hotels of London. There’s not a copy to be had in Scotland, where the closest approximation is the international Herald Tribune, and even those sightings are rare. In St. Andrews, just one shop carries it, and I shall never forget my first attempt to buy one there.

“Do you have the Herald Tribune?” I asked the proprietor.

“Aye,” he said. “Would you like today’s paper or yesterday’s?”

“Why, today’s,” I said, mildly flummoxed.

“Now, you’re sure you’d like today’s and not yesterday’s?” he queried.

“Yes, it’s definitely today’s paper I want,” I said.

“Right,” he said, “then I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Oh, I’m aware I can keep up with the Times on the Internet, and I do check it out occasionally (even noodling the crossword religiously every Sunday) but the experience just isn’t the same.

Ghoulishly, the section I miss most is the obituaries. They took on special importance after I passed 50 and began feeling intimations of mortality. I never actually read the full articles, mind you, just skimmed the headlines:

“Oscar Schlumberger, 91, Radio Pioneer”

“Patrick ‘Woofer’ McSorley, 69, Dog Trainer to the Stars”

“Frank Sperling, 82, Served With Patton’s Army”  

The names could be colorful, but what I obsessed on were the ages—all part of a desperate little game I played each morning. It was match play: me against the dead guys. If the first fellow on the page had died at an age more advanced than my own, I scored myself 1 up; if the deceased was younger than I, I stood 1 down. Usually there were a half dozen or more dearly departed in the morning lineup, sometimes nine or 10 (plenty for a decent match), and most mornings I scored a solid victory. At home or at work, it was a rousing, upbeat way to start each day.

Deprived now of that daily joy, and fully seniorized at 55, I seek solace elsewhere. In a variation on my necrological match-of-cards, I now make a habit of comparing myself in age to prominent and powerful (living) people from all segments of society—the kind of people who tend to have some years on them.

Starting with, say, the Pope. When saintly old John Paul died this spring, I was briefly worried. Then I saw the white signal smoke and the extremely white hair of Cardinal Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI. At age 78, the Holy Father is old enough to be my father, and I find that very comforting.

For an entire feel-good group, there’s the U.S. Supreme Court, where the average age is 16 years over mine. Sweet justice, indeed.

Moving to the executive branch, I can report with pleasure that no major-party presidential candidate has ever been younger than I (granted, it was a close shave last time with both Bush and Kerry). For 2008, I’m hoping it’ll be Rudy versus Hillary, a square-off that would keep my streak intact.

The three other national figures I benchmark are the anchormen for the major television networks. I was batting 1.000 in that regard until last year, when Tom Brokaw quit on me and was replaced by that callow youth, Brian Williams. Needless to say, I’ve stopped watching NBC.

In the world of golf, I keep tabs on a select few figures. Sadly, the president of the USGA, Fred Ridley, is two years younger than I am (first time I’ve been beaten in that category), but on a brighter note the brand-new captain of the R&A, Tom Gault—a supreme court justice from New Zealand—is comfortably older. (Only one captain has not been more ancient than I, and he was royal—Prince Andrew, a year ago.) Finally there is the leading money winner on the Champions Tour. Bless you, 60-year-old Hale Irwin, for your confoundingly continued brilliance.

 Clearly, I can’t win this game much longer unless I want to redefine “prominent people” as anyone who voted for Woodrow Wilson. Therefore, as part of my morbid obsession with decrepitude and death I’ve developed a new game—one that is more participatory and has the capacity to last as long as I do. In my rounds of golf, I establish a target score that is simply the course’s par plus my handicap. For every hole I complete without my total score hitting that target, I award myself five “life-expectancy points.”

Currently my target is 79. If I shoot, say, 85 for the day and my 79th stroke occurs on the 17th hole, it means I have survived 16 holes—16 times five gives me a life expectancy of 80. If I make it through all 18, it means I’ll live to be 90. For each stroke I shoot under 79, I give myself one bonus year. Thus, should I ever manage to break 70, I’ll have the compounded pleasure of knowing I will live to be at least 100. Of course, that life expectancy lasts only until I shoot my next 85.

 Is all of this a little sick? Indeed it is. But I figure it’s no less manic—and a lot more fun—than counting calories, rationing liquor, pumping iron, popping pills and squatting lotus every day. Plus, it keeps my pre-Alzheimer’s mind focused right where it should be: on my golf game.