Smashing pumpkins
When in high school, I decided to do track and field and settled on pole vaulting because you didn’t have to run as much and were pretty much left to yourself as the coach couldn’t be bothered. The sport tended to attract the shadier, dope smoking types, but I loved the acrobatic nature of it all. Of course you’d get the occasional broken pole, or someone would miss the pits (mats) altogether, but it was overall fun.

At this time, they were in the middle of to replace the metal crossbars, which bent easily, with fiberglass bars. These would spring back into shape if some idiot ran into it after failing the vault. Now, the old metal crossbar would have simply bent and I would have tumbled to the pit, straightened the crossbar and tried again. My faithful reader, this was not to be.

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I had been making some good vaults and was going for a new personal record. The approach was good, the bend in the pole was good and up I went. Unfortunately, I only managed one leg over the crossbar – must not have run fast enough.

As if time stood still, I was perched at 11 feet up, momentarily suspended, gripping the pole and my leg on the crossbar. Slowly, the fiberglass bar began to bend, followed by an equal bending of the pole away from me. Still I held on, not sure what to do. The bar bent further; the pole bent further. The bar bent further; the pole bent further – fiberglass can really bend a long way!

Eventually the inevitable happened: the crossbar went sproing! the pole returned to its straight position *FWAP* right between my legs and I fell to the pit unable to breathe or even see due to the sparkly things I saw before my eyes. As I lay there moaning, certain that I’d cracked a couple of eggs, the next guy in line kept yelling for me to get the hell out of the way. Dickhead.

I finally was able to struggle to my feet, careful not to put my legs any closer than a few feet apart. I then slowly shuffled, more bowlegged than John Wayne, all the way back to the lockers oblivious to anything or anyone. Once there I dropped trou, and proceeded to run cold water from the drinking fountain over my cojones, suffering from dry heaves.

It was days before I could walk normally, and although I hadn’t broken my birds eggs, for years I feared I would never sire a child. If I think too long about it, I flashback to that pain and get queasy.
( BrokenCoccyx doesn't mind if you grope on, Fri 22 Jan 2010, 0:12, Reply)