HIGH DIVER

People ask me why I dive. You may as well ask the wind why it blows. Okay, bad example. You may as well ask the earth why it turns. Or fire why it burns. I can't speak for Mother Earth. I can't speak for Uncle Fire. But as for me, maybe it's the smell of chlorine in the morning. Maybe it's the smell of the locker room in the afternoon. Maybe it's the feel of the water against my cheeks. Maybe it's the feel of my speedo against my other cheeks. Maybe it's the thwacka-thwacka-VOING! sound of the diving board vibrating as I leap into the abyss in imaginary slow motion. Maybe it's the dream of Olympic Gold. Maybe it's the dream of a Wheaties contract. Or maybe it's just the dream of excellence. Well, probably not. But whatever it is, it's in my blood. And it can't be analyzed under a microscope. Unlike my urine test, unfortunately.