My run-up went wrong (as usual) and I baulked at the last minute. I sailed over the stupid vault head-first horizontally and landed on my tummy on the crash mat. My body, obeying Newton's first law of motion, kept sailing forwards while my lycra leotard, bothered by its own frictional coefficient, remained where it first made contact with the rubbery surface of the mat. And the physicists wrote a new law involving Collective Attention being drawn to the Point of Exposed Breasts. Or something.
If you can flip yourself into the air and execute a triple somersault before landing effortlessly in a split, WHY on earth would you follow such a thing with rolling around on the mat while doing little fluttery hand movements that cause me to wonder if you're covered with fire ants…?
On two occasions I have made catastrophic errors in coordinating important life events with important athletic events. I married Hot Wife in late October, right in the middle of the World Series, which contractually obligates me to miss an important game in the Series because I have to take her out and actually, like, talk to her and shit. I also agreed to conceive a daughter whose birthday falls right at the juicy part of March Madness. Not smart, Danny.
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