I had to appreciate the irony. Even after I had shared a very long, cathartic moment with the Pacific Ocean, staring into everything, staring into nothing; even after I had missed far too many blocks and hit a loopy line shot when I probably should have just hit the daggum ball, and then watched as Charlie Van Reese dug it easily and ripped a swing – another swing – right past my seam, sealing my fate in the AVP Hermosa Beach qualifier.

Even after that, I laughed to myself at the irony.

The tank top I had packed for the day to replace my roughly 40-pound, sweat-soaked shirt, was a gift from my girlfriend.

It read Hakuna Matata — no worries for the rest of your days.

It was perfect.

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