I wasn’t going to bring this up, but I just joined my friend
Monica’s volleyball team.
I wasn’t going to bring this up, but I just joined my friend Monica’s volleyball team.
Now, normally I would never consider doing anything that required stamina – especially when I could be comfortably shopping at the mall – but she enticed me with vague promises of having fun while being physically active and raising my self-esteem and all that. In fact, she had me worked up into such a state I was convinced that there was nothing in life that would make me happier and more confident than standing on a court, trying to whack a hard ball over a net with my wrists.
When I arrived at the first practice, my team members greeted me enthusiastically. They were a friendly bunch who immediately assured me that they didn’t care one bit about winning, they were just here for the fun of it – which was a good thing since the last time I won at a competitive sport, I hit a bright green golf ball into a plaster of Paris replica of a windmill.
Besides, how in the world were we supposed to win when the volleyball net was so high? It was obviously positioned for people with 7-foot arms. I didn’t recall the net being so high the last time I played volleyball in high school gym class. Maybe that was because I usually saw the net from the bleachers, since that was where the coach wound up putting me during the volleyball games.
He told me that I was playing a crucial outfield position, where my job was to retrieve the ball from the stands before it hit any spectators. But I didn’t really believe him.
Since it was too early to go home, I decided to do what any seasoned athlete would do: develop a winning strategy. I’d just stand in the back row, look alert, and occasionally flap my arms over my head while shouting things like “yeah!” And “good job!” And (just to throw everyone off my trail) “I’ve got it!”
For the first few minutes, I did great. I was confident, assertive, and well-coordinated. Then someone tossed the ball onto the court, and we started the game.
I stood in the back left corner and, as my teammates dived the for ball and lobbed it over the net, I clasped my hands together and tried to look as if I’d pummel the ball as soon as I had the chance. Then I began to pray:
“Dear God, please don’t let that ball come to me. I promise to be a better mother. I will be more patient with my children, I won’t try to do all the laundry at once by mixing colors with whites, and I won’t let anyone eat blue Popsicles for breakfast.” But he must’ve been busier with more important things because as soon as I finished I watched in horror as the ball came flying towards me.
“I got it!” I swung my arms upward and caught it between both elbows while my hands flailed, octopus-like, in the air.
“Point!” called the server on the other team.
I was obviously doing much better than I thought. But just as I was thinking that maybe I could go an entire game without being labeled as “the player most likely to sink the team’s chances” it was my turn to serve.
I tossed the ball into the air, thrust my fist into it, and watched as the ball arched into what would’ve been a perfectly good serve – if we had been playing some other game like tennis. But what could you expect from a short person being forced to play on a court set up for giants?
At the end of the game, we lost 140 to 3, although I could be wrong about this. But we congratulated the other team and gave each other high fives, anyway.
“See, you next week?” my friend Monica asked. I nodded. Despite my better judgment, I wasn’t going to give up that easily. Besides, next time I’m going to wear heels.
