Sadly a small mind shall not be attending the beach volleyball at next years Olympics. As a connoisseur of the sport rather than those leching old guys who shall no doubt populate the crowds this is a travesty.
Having followed the sport since hitting puberty, I know the game, the whole ins and outs. I have studied every game painstakingly and since the arrival of high definition even more so. Slow motion coupled with the crisp HD has provided great insights for me in my love of the most valued of sports.
Where for some the thrill of a footballer falling to the floor in epileptic strains after a slightest touch from a player provides thrills. Where seeing brawny men grabbing each others crotches as they grapple it out in the scrum hits the spot. For me, the toned, the suntanned, and highly skilled young ladies in their ever so tiny outfits, jumping and bouncing as they stretch and reach and rise for the ball provides it for me.
The sweat that streaks their lithe bodies, and as the sand sticks to them in certain places, can provide no greater thrill. The moments where they sort out that unfortunate wedgie, which the camera man so happens to be able to catch are for me the greatest that sport has to offer.
They use such skill and energy in this most fit of fitness pursuits, that only the truly fit can partake in. Such a build-up of pressure during the games that at their end, I can only imagine what relief and pleasure they take from their group showers following the matches.
However, there is a pressing matter now that I need to deal with...
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