Becoming an amateur lumberjack is rewarding, fun and easy — a relaxing hobby, much like needlepoint or stamp collecting, I tell my friends.

You casually swing a maul down on a log and CRACK! — it automatically splits neatly in two.

Or you gently push and pull a handsaw back and forth a few times — who needs a gas-powered chain saw? — and ZIP-ZIP-ZIP … done! Nothing can be simpler!

Nearly a dozen pals accepted an invitation last Sunday to my second annual contest of lumberjack skills that would make a bona fide logger cringe. (You can watch Peter Huoppi’s video of the action at www.theday.com.)

Nobody had to race up and down a tree trunk with spiked boots, scamper afloat on a rolling log or chop away at timber perilously positioned between the legs. The real challenge was making sure none of the contestants brought a sledge hammer down on a toe, lacerated an appendage or came overly close to striking a spectator with a double-headed throwing axe.

There were, however, ample opportunities to look foolish, as I demonstrated right from the get-go during the first event, wood-splitting.

For the record, I hadn’t planned to compete but only serve as master of ceremonies. However, after contestants overheard some snarky comments I made while they competed, my old pal Bob Carlson called out, “Hey — what about Steve?”

And so I stepped up to the splitting station and flubbed my first swing, prompting what seemed to be unnecessarily enthusiastic hilarity. Eventually, though, I redeemed myself — but more of that later.

Bob did surprisingly well in the wood splitting for an old gomer (he’s two years my senior), and Robin Francis distinguished herself by gamely competing as the lone female entrant, but it was Tim Lambert who crushed it, splitting two logs into eight sections in 32 seconds.

In the one-person saw contest, Phil Warner and my son Tom tied for first by each slicing through a three-inch-thick birch branch in a lightning-fast five seconds, while Tim and I eked out a narrow victory in the two-person saw division, cutting through an eight-inch log in 10 seconds, a scant second faster than Phil and Bob.

As a prelude to the final contest, 9-year-old Mason Huoppi drew a mighty cheer when he successfully stuck a hatchet blade into a giant oak stump target mounted on a wooden platform.

When the applause died down, it was time for the main event.

I brought out the two-headed axe, a malevolent weapon similar to the model wielded by Visigoths when they sacked Rome. Incidentally, modern throwing axes have become increasingly popular at bars across the country to the extent that contests like mine one day may be as common as pool tournaments and dart matches.

Under my rules (not to be confused with strict regulations proscribed by the National Axe Throwing Federation that represents 6,000 members in eight countries), competitors received one point each time they stuck the axe anywhere on the target, and three points if they hit a two-inch bullseye.

Anyway, last Sunday I watched calmly from the sidelines while other contestants took their turns and put up modest numbers. But then eagle-eyed Tim nailed four out of five throws, including one bullseye, for a seemingly insurmountable score of eight points.

“Game on,” I announced, striding to a scratched mark on the ground 15 feet from the target.

I slowly hoisted the axe overhead until one blade almost touched my back, and then snapped it forward.

THWACK! The metal point just barely lapped over an edge of the bullseye. Three points.

The crowd hushed.

Jaw set, I retrieved the axe, returned to the line, and let loose my second throw.

THWACK! Hit the target again, but no bullseye. Only one point.

Third throw: Another point.

On my fourth toss, disaster! The axe bounced off the target and landed on the moss-covered ground.

I had five points and needed a bullseye to win. It would all come down to one last throw…

Great moments in sports history forever resonate: The U.S. Olympic Hockey Team’s stunning comeback victory over the Soviets in 1980 (“Do you believe in miracles!”); Ali’s 1975 Thrilla in Manilla (“Down goes Frazier!”); the Celts knocking off the 76ers in 1965 (“Havlicek stole the ball!”); Bobby Thomson’s 1951 home run (“The Giants won the pennant! The Giants won the pennant! The Giants won the pennant!”)

As I watched the axe sailed skyward in a low arc, time seemed to lapse into slo-mo while I imagined an announcer’s call:

“It’s in the air, smooth release, perfect rotation, looking good …”

THWACK!

A cheer erupted.

Bullseye! Bullseye! Bullseye!