The most infamous sports crash occured on Oct 13, 1972, when the Old Christians Rugby Team, near San Fernando, Chile, crashed in a Fairchild Hiller FH-227D in the Andes. It flew into a mountain wave, leading to loss of control. Found 72 days after the crash, the team had resorted to cannibalism to stay alive. Luckily, they were soccer players, so drumsticks were the entree. 29 of 45 aboard were killed via either impact or sandwich. The movie "Alive" is based on this crash.

I keep meaning to rent it, simple because the idea of watching anyone gnaw on Vincent Spano’s thigh has a certain appeal.

One thing about sex, there is a carnivorous aspect to it, desires of the flesh and all. And it’s been pretty well established that most athletes are treated like meat anyway.

One thing I like to do whenever I fly is keep my boots on. I like to think that should I ever be involved in such an emergency, like the narrator of “Fight Club,” like the protagonist in the film and book “Fearless,” like Karen Black in "Airport ‘75," I might freak at first, but eventually chill and save some lives. The best way to do this is be able to walk through the piles of metal shards and flaming foam seats, provided I have all my limbs.

Like a rock star, like a Willy Loman selling _____ (insert innovative e-commerce product here), any pro jock will tell you that playing the sport isn’t the hard part.

It’s the airports.

Lugging your stuff, being X-rayed, rabid fans, cramping yourself into a “seating area” you wouldn’t be able to bear on land for more than two minutes, being X-rayed again; planes and their accordant ports, camera surveilled tiolets, salesdogs yakking on cell phones mid-pee, smore rabid fans; it’s all without a doubt the true mechanical preparation for Hell, with a Starbucks cart to keep you peppy.

Keeping healthy while jagging around with Eau de Jet Fuel, your spine crunched into the shape of a Rubik’s Cube, tossed peanuts by hair-impaired spacetrons, cramped between an asthmatic housewife and a snooty entrepreneur clacking away on his PC, flying ain’t fun no mo. Rarely does one meet someone half as interesting as a Tyler Durden.

So the guilt-free prospect of being decimated at a few thousand miles an hour looks pretty good, especially in the company of potential Olympians.

Now of course, lots of ordinary non-athletic folk perish in plane crashes. A few singers, too, and strangely, a lot of astronauts. If you’re interested in checking out the crash record of your frequent flyer plan, visit www.planecrashinfo.com.

If you’re expecting the replicants on the evening news to pursue the explanation as to why more and more plane crashes occur, and not fill the airwaves with treacly human interest pieces on the grieving relatives of the in-flight deceased, you will be disappointed.

But what’s the gay angle? There’s always a gay angle. A familiar pattern occurs in the lives of closeted pro jocks. They could only find romance on the road. Dave Pallone. Billy Bean. Even former pro football player David Kopay had to leave San Francisco to get some nookie during the “Boogie Nights” era, even when he was a 49er. Go figure.

But what if you end up on a plane full of jocks? A pro bowler? A whole team?

I’d say make the most of it. Odds are you’re gonna end up on America’s Funniest Corporate Explosions anyway.

But say you survive a group flight with a team in tow. I’d say, make the most of that, too. Flirt. Upgrade to business class.

But if they start playing a Richie Valens, Patsy Cline or Buddy Holly tribute over the preflight Muzak, take the bus.