Water Sports and Weddings

It was time to do the unspeakable. It was time to let them go. There'd been too many casualties lost under the pile. A man can only wear so many shirts; it's hard enough swapping hats all the time. Some good old friends were tossed into the heap of rejects. A heavy hand is needed when weeding through the ranks. It was hard, but overdue, like most things lately. There were gifts and there were gags, there were reminders of some keepers that I managed to lose along the way. Some trophy tees I kept simply because of their sources, their stories. A white Section IX Swimming Champs number, the names of two girls I'd entered printed on the back; how could I get rid of that ironic cotton? The sweeter of the two broke the record set by another person I used to date, several years her senior, in a strange twist of fate. A few more T-shirts later and I find one from an Empire State Games rowing medalist. Crew, they call it, but I never liked the term. She was another one that irked me, mostly since I wasn't ready. I never am until it's too late. The swimmers, the rowers, the fishers of faulted men: It must be because I'm a Pisces. Some of them fall for it, myself included. It's not a shirt that one can shed. That's why they'd be inaccurate in calling me a snake.