“With great power comes great responsibility.” These are the dying words of Uncle Ben—not the beloved rice brand mascot, but the uncle of future web-slinger Peter Parker. A powerful notion in its time (Amazing Spider-Man #15, 1962) and still powerful now.

With ability will always come duty and purpose.

Similar to how obesity comes with a higher risk of heart disease, stroke, fertility problems, and the great responsibility: The Cannonball.

The Cannonball is, of course, the diving style where in which one tucks their knees to their chest and attempts to enter the water with their body shaped as much like a sphere as possible. The goal is to create the largest splash possible. Bonus points if the dive is announced like famed anchorman Ron Burgundy prior to the participant's leap.

The ball, to me, was once a burden.

Entering community pools as a self-conscious, overweight child, I dreaded the attendant pulling me aside and telling me, “No cannonballs.” Or worse still, pointing me out across the pool, blowing their whistle, and issuing the warning very publicly. Letting me and the world know, You are different, the bad kind.

Like many things entering my fourth decade, this falsehood of my youth seems very silly now. Santa is not real, babies do not come out of butts (not all of them, anyway), and I like my body.

I am a heavyset lad, have been my whole life. I have ranged from thic to thicccc. I like to think I wear my weight well, and a smile fits any size.

I would love to tell that husky boy with the towel around his shoulders, desperately trying to hide his breasts of my past, that he is fine and what is on the inside will always matter more than what is on the outside. Have fun, kid. Don’t worry about it.

But I can’t do that.

I can do a cannonball.

Kiwanis Community Pool sits two blocks from my home. It is a nice walk through the neighborhood, beach chair on my back, book in hand, and a thermos of Tito’s and pink lemonade. I pay my resident fee of five dollars and enter the gate.

Once more into the fray.

The echoes of delight and sternly said reminders of no running fill the air as I make my way to the back corner of the pool. The deep end.

I pass some rambunctious kickboard surfers, a couple of young women who both believe they can hold their breath longer but have both been cheating in their competition by sneaking air intermittently, and a young lad fresh out of the pool in a T-shirt, desperately seeking a towel in an attempt to cover up the way the wet shirt showcases his curves.

I acknowledge the last with a head nod, the corner of my mouth lifting, but the dark frames of my glasses hiding empathetic eyes.

Have fun, kid. Don’t worry about it.

I reach my preferred location—across the pool from the suspicious eyes of helicopter parents, curious about this childless man in his mid-thirties with a less-than-discreet thermos and a library book.

Far enough away from the splash pads and the children who are young enough to easily be abducted. And across from the lifeguard tower, to whom I also always offer an acknowledging nod. I get it, brother. I too served the rescue buoy.

The skies are clear, but it is still a muggy 95 degrees. I unfold my chair, remove my shirt, and crack open a young J.R. Moehringer.

“It takes just as many men to build a sturdy man, son, as it does to build a tower. You will look back on this time and remember remarkably little of it…”

I am burning through this memoir, starting to reach that awful part of a book where you know it is going to end, and you will have to put it down.

Drawing from my Yeti, I pause my reading and look up to a squadron of youths just feet from me, practicing their dives.

No one can agree whose is better, but it is confirmed they all have touched the bottom—except Kyle. The T-shirted child is with them, rarely interjecting but notably excited to be included.

I clear my throat and start to stand.

“Gentlemen.”

Their heads snap around, holding fearful expressions, assuming they are about to be asked to leave the deep end.

“I think you all have tremendous diving form, and it will only continue to improve this summer. And Kyle is touching bottom by July. But a headfirst dive? I mean, c’mon, those two little girls were over here earlier practicing them.”

I offer a vague, quick point to the splash pad at a couple of toddlers who are especially takeable, hopeful it is missed by the copter parents.

“Yeah, dives are cool and all, I guess. But they’re no cannonball. You ever seen one of those?”

Laughing amongst themselves, they assure me they have seen a cannonball.

“Not like this, you ain’t.”

I walk to the pool and curl my toes over the edge, dramatically shaking out my hands and cracking my neck.

My pack of preteens and I have gathered the entire attention of the pool—from lifeguards to the formerly fearful parents and chaperones. The splash pad falls silent.

Deep breath.

“CANNONBALL!”

The announcement comes mid-air. My knees curl perfectly into my chest, my arms crossing to hold them in place as I rotate 15 degrees to maximize my splash zone.

Underwater, I chuckle before coming to the surface, knowing that perception is—and always will be—reality.

“You like that?! That’s how it’s done, son! Miss me with that dive stuff. Cannonballs, baby!!”

I throw water in the air for effect and the delight of my target audience before swimming to the side of the pool and lifting myself out.

With a head nod of acknowledgment, I return to my chair, wrapping my towel around my legs only, my chest and stomach still exposed, and pick back up my book. I put my AirPods on and pretend to press play so as not to invite further engagement.

“Haha, man, that was kind of sick. Who do you guys think can do the best cannonball here? … Prolly Mikey, right?”

I keep my head down and pretend to read The Tender Bar.

Had I grown up beside a river or an ocean, some natural avenue of self-discovery and escape, I might have mythologized it…

But I watch out of the corner of my eye as Wet T-shirt pushes his way to the front and showcases a surprising vert as a cracking voice announces…

“CaNnoNBalLLL!”

Now sell it, really fucking sell it, kid…

“That’s hOW it’s done!”

The boy bobbed to the surface, and the rest of the group launched themselves into the pool, whooping with excitement before swimming off.

Shaking the Yeti to confirm there was only ice left, I finished up the chapter and gathered my things to leave.

The boys had moved on to a part of the pool away from the exit, where even Kyle could touch the bottom. I thanked the lifeguard and the gate attendant as I left before looking back through the chain link at the splashing group of kids and offering a thumbs-up and a smile to the husky boy in the T-shirt.

Have fun, kid. Don’t worry about it.