The veteran editor was macho in every way. He was crusty and cranky and sometimes he’d throw things at your head to get your attention. He knew all existing four-letter words and had invented a few of his own. The man could recite baseball stats dating back to the ’50s and was known to throw a decent game of hoops.

You can imagine my disappointment when the tough old bird injured himself in a gardening accident.

I’m not sure how it happened, exactly. Apparently, the snarling editor was out planting flowers in his backyard when there was some type of mishap. He twisted his ankle and went down. I’m sure the agony was unreal. I’ll bet petunias and daffodils covered their eyes.

When he hobbled into the newsroom a day or so later, I was eager to hear his story. A confrontation with a mugger? Heroics at a house fire? A bad turn on the downtown basketball court where the meanest of the mean shoot hoops?

No. A gardening accident. Say it ain’t so, I implored him. Tell me you were wrestling with a bear out in the garden, or at least a groundhog gone mean.

When bad things happen to good people, you want a tale of grit and machismo to wash down the news.

More recently, a guy I know busted his leg and required painful surgery. I heard about the injury without any accompanying details. When those details emerged, I wished I’d left it alone.

This fellow, acerbic in wit, tough in his convictions and athletic by all appearances, got tangled up in a display at a store that sells baby toys. Overwrought with rattles, pacifiers and Beanie Babies, the man went down. You can imagine the high voice of Elmo cackling as the poor schlep clutched his leg and screamed.

Horrible story. It cries for embellishment or an all-out lie. But the fact is, an embarrassing mishap makes for a better story than a heroic one.

Another friend of mine, a woman, went into the workplace one morning limping badly. Co-workers asked her what caused the infirmary and she told them. Seems she was getting dressed that morning and caught a toenail on her panties. As she pulled the panties up, the toenail came with it. No doubt an excruciating injury. But the only thing more embarrassing than a panties-related boo-boo would be if it happened to a man.

Another colleague of mine once hurt himself in a sports-related mishap that just doesn’t make it as macho. He was coaching his kid’s T-ball league and decided to impress the lads with his athletic prowess. He trotted to a fence and leapt, no doubt picturing an agile landing on the other side. But instead, he landed crotch-first on top of the fence.

Yes, nothing impresses the kids like a dad doubled over in pain after suffering one of those injuries so popular on home video shows.

I know a lady who badly messed up her ankle simply by standing up. My brother once broke his teeth falling on a keg. Me, my battle scars tend to be fairly macho. In fact, the only time I broke a bone was when I shattered a couple of ribs diving for a foul ball at a semi-pro baseball game.

Never mind that I ultimately snatched the ball away from a young woman and got booed by the crowd. The bone-crunching ordeal was sports-related and thus, macho as all get-out. And I got the ball.

Same deal the time I messed up my wrist on the baseball field. It was a routine fly to center field and sure to drop in for a single. I dashed for it, dove and stuck my glove out. The ball landed neatly in the glove and my hand landed not so neatly behind me. My wrist swelled up to the size of a 40-ounce beer, but so what? I caught the ball and thus, I was due the baseball equivalent of the Purple Heart.

Not everyone is so blessed. Surly sports writers slip on ice for no apparent reason. Cops strain their backs tying a shoelace. Athletes fall off bar stools and tough guys fall on their boom booms and howl.

There is no limit to the nasty things that can happen to the human body. And yet the body is amazingly resilient. The guy who got beaten down by a toy display is already working the crutches like a pro, though he cringes if you sneak up on him with a SpongeBob doll.

Me, I’ll probably survive the trauma with equal resilience. I’m expecting a few bumps and bruises after the above-mentioned clods realize I’ve been talking about them.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.