Alright, alright, alright, let’s address the elephant in the room: the twig of a senior in skinny jeans (aka me) standing with the athletes during the announcement of the twelve season folk. Now, I can’t speak for the athletic department, but I can certainly imagine what may have gone wrong, and, as a humor writer, have little to no obligation to share anything other than my own opinion shrouded in fiction so as to make my true beliefs unclear.

Hypothesis One: My intimidatingly beefy, muscle-bound, barely 135-pound frame fooled everyone into believing that I am in fact, an athlete still waiting for puberty, but an athlete nonetheless.

Hypothesis Two: My fitbit has been hacked by Julian Assange, and it was found that my step counts were high enough to qualify as an athlete, though said steps were garnered purely by means of erratic offstage jazz hands and snapping during the dancier bits of Urinetown.

Hypothesis Three: I snuck onstage and slipped Tasker a twenty to read my name.

Whatever the case may have been, I’d like to thank the athletics department for graciously including me next to a line of college-bound athletes, state champions, people who legitimately petrify me in the weightroom, and lauded men and women alike who have actually competed in a full twelve seasons of athletics. In the same breath, I’d like to apologize to anyone who may have felt that their achievements were diminished in some way by my blood-deprived legs carrying the rest of me and my eight and a half seasons on stage.