Resigned, he moves into position, bends backwards at the waist, and edges forward. His knees make it under, and so do his thighs, but the problem in his shorts isn’t deflating despite the growing crowd of onlookers and high potential for embarrassment. He attempts to drop his hips so his problem clears the bar, but that sets him off-balance. His special parts skim the stick. Someone snaps a picture. He lands on his back in the sand and jabs an angry finger in my direction. “You cheated!” I bat my lashes and offer him a hand. “How could I possibly have cheated?”
