text: That was not a fart! I knew Taco Bell was a bad idea. Number 35 stole the ball meant for me. "Hey, Ed! What the heck! Cut!" Darren yelled. It's true, the lane was open. However, my current situation did not lend itself to fast breaks. I slowly jogged back to the other side of the court, trying not to exasperate the mishap. Then it hit me -- white uniform! We're the home team! The coach bellowed, "Get your butt back on defense!" My butt was precisely the problem. I needed to limit my movement as much as possible. If I keep moving, the crowd will catch a whiff of a fragrant foul so putrid it would crush the Guinness World Record. Throughout high school, I'd be the butt of every joke. What the heck! I'm doing it right now! I sped up a smidge to appease Coach, but the accident in my underwear began to spread - I could feel it. The other team scored a bucket, so I turned around and carefully paced myself back to our side of the court. All of a sudden, I smelled a pungent odor coming from my backside. Panic rose inside. If I could smell it, then my defender could also smell it. I lingered near half-court, not wanting to attract any attention. Unfortunately, I attracted more attention. Darren motioned for me to go low and post up where I belonged. But there was no way on God's green earth I was going down there. My butt wasn't going to butt out anyone tonight. I needed to get off this court fast. Mercifully, we missed a shot, and the other team rebounded. My mind raced. How can I get out of here? I'm just going to have to make a dash for it. I'll run right off the court and to the lockers. Of course, Coach would probably tackle me before I left the gym, but what else can I do? I veered to the sideline, about to make the fastest fastbreak of my life, when Coach eyed me. He gave me the look we all fear - the one that doesn't need to say anything; you know you'd better run right over to him or say your goodbyes. However, I couldn't obey. I turned to escape, but the ref blew his whistle and pointed me to the bench before I could. Coach called a time-out! I slowly walked. What am I going to do? Coach waved for me to hurry. My teenage life flashed before me. I will never live this down. The smell was worsening. It would be impossible for the team not to notice. The very thought of it made me sick. Wait! That's it! I grabbed my stomach with one hand and, for good measure, my mouth with the other. "I'm going to be sick!" I shouted. Then, I ran for the lockers. Well, I didn't run; it was more like I walked with urgency. I sped through the hall with carefully measured steps. If my stench was an officer in the Army, it just got promoted from captain to colonel. The lockers were just around the corner. I turned the corner and couldn't believe my eyes. I dashed back out of sight. No freaking way! Charlotte! The love of my life! She didn't see me. I'm sure of that. She was searching through her locker and was too preoccupied to notice me. What should I do? I peeked back at her, then darted back. She was coming this way. I looked around. I couldn't run fast enough to reach the other side of the hall before she went around the corner. She'd see me. And worse, smell me. I spotted a janitorial closet only a few feet away. I turned the handle, praying like Billy Graham that it wasn't locked. It opened! I ducked in and quietly shut the door. I heard her humming some Taylor Swift song, but when she passed my door, she blurted out, "Oh, I'm going to be sick. Did a toilet back up?" I could hear her start to run. Once her steps faded, I cracked open the door and ensured the hall was clear. I tiptoed to the corner and looked to see if the path to the lockers was free. It was. So, throwing caution to the wind and a horrible aroma, I ran to the locker door, opened it, and dived into the nearest toilet stall. I took a deep breath, which was a mistake, but it didn't diminish my feeling of peace. I made it. No one will know. I stripped out of my uniform and began to clean up. "Achoo!" I froze. Someone sneezed only a couple of stalls from me. I silently sat, completely naked, contemplating what to do, when the other guy's toilet flushed. He opened his stall and walked past mine. "Man alive, dude. Have you ever heard of a courtesy flush?" He washed his hands. "When you dump, you flush. Do us all a favor next time," he said before exiting the locker room. I put on my jersey and popped out of my stall. I hurriedly washed my shorts and dried them under a hand dryer. I kept eying the door. I really didn't know how to explain why I was butt-naked from the waist down. Fortunately, I never had to. Once my shorts were dry, I put them on. Next, I half emptied the trash can of discarded paper towels and threw away my underwear. I then repacked the used paper towels on top of the offensive garment. Finally, the ordeal was over, and the only consequence was going commando for a while. I was elated. Well, there was one more consequence. The locker room smelled like crap. But it's a consequence I can live with because no one can trace it back to me. I returned to the bench, smelling a bit like hand soap. We were in the fourth quarter and leading by fifteen points. Coach sat beside me, "Feeling better?" "Yes, Coach," I said. "Was it something you ate?" "I'm pretty sure it was." "You know? Michael Jordan scored sixty-three points when he got food poisoning." So, my night ends this way: I'm a man if I return or a wimp if I sit out. After everything I went through, it was so unfair to be judged this way. I hung my head and stared at the floor. Coach got up and went back to his seat. I wanted to defend myself - to declare victory for conquering a lifetime of shame. I wanted to say, "Well, yeah! But at least Jordan still had his underwear."