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My competition trunks were waiting in my locker, placed neatly by the equipment manager as always. I slipped into them, oblivious to what lay ahead, and strode confidently to the starting platform. But the moment the starter pistol cracked, so did my dignity—my trunks tore clean down the back. I sprinted the entire race, cheeks burning for more reasons than exertion. I hadn't yet realized the fans got an eyeful of my hairy balls, exposed below my ass. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that this was the equipment manager's revenge. After all, I had loudly complained about his lazy habit of pulling my dirty jockstrap out of the hamper and without washing it, hanging it to "air-drying" in my locker. It reeked so badly during our morning lifting sessions that even the gym rats grimaced at the smell.