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A man is only as good as his word, and I made Kymie Roland a promise.

While gingerly walking away from the shot put ring at Smithville High and back to the sun-baked track Friday, June 26, for the concluding event in our Preps vs. Press pentathlon, I told the recent grad I wouldn’t spend the entirety of this column bragging about my big, manly triumph. About how my rippling muscles paired with perfect technique helped me hurl the shot long into the cool, green grass.

So I won’t. Just a few short paragraphs.

I won.

I won.

I won.

OK, now, as Paul Harvey used to say, the rest of the story.

For any of you who know Kymie Roland, it is hard to picture her kicking anyone’s butt. I was too tired to ask her Friday how tall she was, but I’d guess about 5-foot-6. And I was too smart Friday — or any day for that matter — to ask her how much she weighs, but I’d guess 110 pounds is waaaaaay on the high side.

Not the typical recipe for a butt-kicker, except for one little, important tidbit. She runs. A lot. And fast. Fast enough to claim a spot with Park University’s track program next spring.

I don’t even run to the fridge. I mean, it’s not like it’s going anywhere.

Yet there I was, willingly putting my ego and several specific body parts on the line, all in the name of a newspaper column. (Remember this, bosses, when it’s time to hand out those big, fat raises next spring.)

We had agreed in advance to compete in a heptathlon, seven events to determine superiority in this battle of the sexes. However, Smithville head track coach Greg Smith neglected to make arrangements to have the high jump pit set up and ready to go — which, considering he’s a University of Missouri fan, wasn’t much of a surprise.

So, much to my chagrin — because back in the eighth grade, I was one gnarly high jumper — we had to alter our course. The heptathlon underwent a bit of a Greek downgrade and became a pentathlon of five events — the 100-meter hurdles, the long jump, the 800, the shot put and the 200.

Smith was on hand to record the times and distances (which means all the results you are about to read are dubious at best) and several of Kymie’s former Smithville teammates were on hand to witness this historic beatdown of epic proportions.

I had already run one warm-up lap in my just-purchased New Balance shoes, did a little stretching, nothing popped (but it all creaked) and pronounced myself ready to go.

First, the hurdles, which, honestly, scared both of us to death. Especially after I jumped over one just to get a gauge, and nearly came crashing to earth.

I mean, Liberty High’s Shea Groom broke her freaking elbow doing this in the spring, and she was a defending state medalist! That didn’t bode well for my long-term health.

The gun sounded — the gun being another recent grad, Dakota Olson — and off we went. Over one hurdle, two, three, four, five. Out of my peripheral vision, I could tell I had a slight lead. Both the wind and the fans had my back. Visions of Edwin Moses filled my head.

Five hurdles later, we cleared the last of them, and that’s when the bad news set in. I actually had to run to the finish.

Kymie’s time? 22.12 seconds.

Mine? 22.21.

The game of inches had begun. It would continue in our next event, the long jump. Again, this involved running. And jumping. Those two things trail far behind sitting and remote-control flipping on my to-do list.

But again, I hung tough. We each made three jumps, and we both went farther with each effort. Neither of us fouled, amazing considering the blinding speed with which we attacked the board. Carl Lewis, watch out.

Kymie’s distance? 13 feet, 9 inches.

Mine? 13 feet, 5.5 inches.

OK, that put me in a 2-0 hole — or, to be more accurate, a 423-398 hole in the pentathlon points scoring system. All I had to do was eke out a victory in the next event, the 800, and I was back in the game.

Oh, did I mention that involves running TWO laps around the track? And that Kymie Roland just won a bronze medal for helping Smithville’s 3,200 relay team — that’s four people each running an 800 — to a third-place finish at the Class 3 state track meet?

Yeah, even Greg Smith can do that math. The good news is I finished the two laps and did not die. The bad news is, I had to walk about 100 meters of the second lap to make sure that wasn’t the case.

Kymie’s time? 2:49.1.

Mine? 4:11.1. People run the mile faster than that.

In an insurmountable hole, I refused to quit. Isn’t there some saying about being too stupid to quit?

Anyway, next was the shot put. Now, normally, I am not a male, chauvinist pig. Male and pig? Yes. Chauvinist? Nope. But I told everyone in the office that if I did not win the shot put, I just might pick up the heavy, leaden ball and bash myself in the skull, ending the misery right then and there.

This, considering we still had the 200 to run, might not have been such a bad idea anyway. But, alas, victory was mine!

Kymie’s distance? 23-9.

Mine? 29-8.

Just for good measure, after our three regulation throws, I took one more for fun, using my best Monica Seles tennis grunt on the release. That one cleared 34 feet. Yay, testosterone!

All that was left was the 200. And with my individual triumph in the bag, the thoughts of standing on the medal podium while the National Anthem played running through my head, I was in no sort of mental state to keep pace. I had lost my edge.

Kymie’s time? 29.9.

Mine? 37.7.

And just like that, it was over. Kymie scored 1,701 points, and I managed a meager 924. She probably left the track and ran another five miles, because that’s what she does.

I left and umpired four baseball games, because when I am not impersonating a sports writer impersonating a track superstar, that’s what I do.

I woke up Saturday morning and could barely walk.

I blame the shoes.

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