This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

I was 5 years old the first time I knocked myself unconscious. I don't recall the incident beyond a dim memory of the world blowing up.

My family was on a ship bound for Spain. According to my parents, I was running up and down a passageway when the boat lurched one way and I another — straight into an iron railing. To this day, the Old Man insists that it made a noise like hitting an empty oil drum.

Consciousness returned with a hazy sense of detachment. Off in the distance, I heard the Old Man saying, "Maybe we can bury him at sea." I shook it off and started running again.

I mention this because my sixth documented episode of becoming unconscious against my will occurred on a trampoline, and now trampolines are the subject of legislative action.

HB300, or the Trampoline Gym Licensing Act, is sponsored by Rep. Norman K. Thurston, R-Provo. It would impose rules and restrictions on trampolines used for commercial purposes.

Even though he's a Republican, I support Thurston's bill. It makes sense. It just doesn't go far enough. All trampolines should be regulated, including those in private backyards. Furthermore, it should be a class A misdemeanor to JUI — jump under the influence.

Trampolines are dangerous when not properly installed, maintained and used with diligent care. They're even worse when made accessible to dimwits, stoners and showoffs.

On the day of knockout No. 6, I was not only all three of those, but also 17 years old. Bammer and I were at his cousin's house, passing the time of day, among other things.

Across the back fence were several girls practicing flips on a trampoline. There's just something about tight shorts and blond ponytails that shaves IQ points off the male mind. But no matter how we tried to win their attention, they ignored us.

Bammer's cousin also had a trampoline, though not nearly as nice as the one across the fence. It was sun-bleached and rarely used. It was there mostly so that the dog would have a place to lounge in the shade.

Enter the dimwit. I once believed that getting noticed by spectacular women required spectacular moves. So I climbed onto the roof of the single-story house and announced my intention of showing everyone how to properly use a trampoline.

That got their attention all right. The girls stopped jumping and shaded their eyes looking up at me.

Nothing good has ever come from lust, drugs and youth, but I was stuck now. The girls were gazing. I had to jump. So I did.

I remember the first part as being rather pleasant. I was flying. Even better, I was on course for the center of the trampoline.

I've never been able to figure out the science of what happened next. The trampoline's fabric had degraded to the point that it allowed me unencumbered access to the ground beneath, and yet still maintained enough elasticity to throw me back into the air.

I returned headfirst onto the metal frame, at which point memory — and bladder — failed me. I came to with my friends laughing uproariously from the deck. The girls were gone and the long hair I had was gripped by several springs. My tailbone ached for six months.

I'm not saying this wouldn't have happened had Thurston's bill been law back then, but we'll never know how many slightly less-stupid people it might have saved.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.