The other night, playing pickup hoops in my cul de sac, I experienced what we in the industry call a "blowout."

After a head fake and a crossover dribble, I was gliding past my neighbor Jak (as usual) when -- in mid-shot -- the elastic band on Goldenboy, the jockstrap that has, well, supported me since the Reagan Administration, tore free from its stitching and snapped back like a rubber band toward what can best be described as the last freakin' place you'd want things snapping back at like a rubber band.

My layup missed the basket and nearly crashed through a neighbor's living-room window.

As I writhed in agony on my front lawn -- Jak's laughter echoing in my ear -- the excruciating pain in my nether region was compounded by the realization that I would now have to go out and buy a new jockstrap. Us men, we tend to hold onto these things for decades at a time. So I had no idea how much the whole jock industry had changed since the last time I was in the market.

I first tried to use the Internet, which, if you think about it, could be a euphemism for "jockstrap". This was a bad, bad, baaaad idea. I clicked past the mesh jocks, colored (lime green and bright orange) jocks, fashion jocks, police jocks (honest), swimming jocks (who knew?) and compression jocks (yeowch!) until I came across something called a Futuro Suspensory Jock that looked like a medieval marble bag and featured this sales pitch: "Versatile Scrotal Support! Comes in three pouch sizes based upon the size of your testicles and how snuggly you would like the pouch to fit!"

I am only gonna say this once: you can't make this stuff up, folks -- there are laws.

So off to the Super Megasportswarehousetripleplexorama I went. And of course, as soon as I cleared the front door, Miss Permasmirk nose ring with the bell-bottoms and suffocating suburban teen angst ran up to ask what she could help me find. Feeling a bit like Michael Douglas, I said "just looking" and crept away.

It did not help my insecurity one bit when I found the jockstraps way in the back of the store -- stacked in a corner and as far away from the entrance as possible -- like (I'm told) porno mags at the 7-Eleven. My only solace was a nearby poster of Brandi Chastain that seemed to whisper to me, "Go on, don't be ashamed of your athletic support undergarments."

Ashamed? Not really. Confused? You bet. I mean, it's like using a black and white TV with rabbit-ear antennas for 15 years and then getting a satellite dish for Christmas. Colored jocks, women's jocks, support briefs, bike briefs (one marked in large letters: TRES GRANDE), action shorts (which I thought was an Oscar category), and supporters with cups that featured sharp metal snaps near your groin to hold the shield in place (an obvious design flaw).

(By the way, next to the jocks were, I swear, badminton shuttlecocks and ping-pong balls. Sometimes the power of observation can be a curse.)

The jock prices ranged from $4.99 to $14.99. But you have serious issues if you'd skimp on this purchase.

Sizes? Well come on, I thought, no man, besides Richard Lewis, would buy a Small. Would they? Imagine my own inferiority complex when I leaned down to look at a jock marked Small (for research only, of course) and saw this on the label: 28"-30". (Waist size, people. Waist size.)

Anyway, on the back of this box it warned: DO NOT IRON. It also said, "Whether in the locker room or the board room...from the race track to the fast track ... for over a 100 years we've been making our revolutionary line of support underwear to help you stay ahead of the competition."

I'm paraphrasing. Because trust me, you don't want to linger around the jock section scribbling notes, chuckling to yourself and testing elasticity for too long. Security to men's athletic supporters, security, we have a CODE RED in men's athletic supporters. So I tossed a jock in my cart and filed the item under ESPN expense report section 47382, column 9, line 84 -- Business Support.

Little Miss Permasmirk's buddy, Mr. Pimple-faced-baggy-jeans-rad-dude rang me up. I had tried to hide the jock among several hundred dollars' worth of sporting goods, but when it ran through the scanner, MEN'S ATHLETIC SUPPORTER (LARGE) flashed up on the screen for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly I felt like I was in a John Hughes film. The guy behind me nodded sympathetically. A woman near the next register chuckled. My heart raced. My mouth went dry.

And as the kid put my new jock in the bag, he turned it over, looked at the label one last time, and then he gave me a smirk that screamed:

LARGE? Oh, I get it. You must be buying this for a friend.

David Fleming, a senior writer for The Magazine, shares his off-center perspective each week. Check out this week's WHYLOS. And E-mail flemfile@aol.com.