I am a sweaty person. Not just a little, not merely a light sheen of perspiration on hot days or after after exercise, but sweaty. Rivulets become torrents become a full-body drenching at the first sniff of 90 degrees or after the mildest of exertions. I am a disgusting human being, more liquid than man, my sweat visibly soaking through shirts and even, on special occasions, the heavy denim of jeans. No one wants to sit next to me on the subway, because they will stick. No one wants to guard me in basketball, because they will slide right off my body like it’s a stone thick with pond scum. Sweatiness is my curse. All of this is to say: Sean Miller, I get you.
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