The Game
July 20th, 2010
We went to the beach with a group from church on Saturday. My husband drove a couple friends down very early and reserved a spot. My daughter and I went with a couple other friends later, at a more civilized hour. Right from the start, my friend’s daughter started telling her mom how her brother wouldn’t let her join the volleyball game.
I used to play. I used to be good at it. Not great, not even star-of-the-PE-class good, but I was better than cruddy. I could serve a mean ball.
So I grabbed Sigi and, ignoring her protests, dragged her to an empty court, followed by a group of sixteen year old girls and some men who couldn’t resist the idea of an easy win.
We took sides. The girls and Sigi on the other side, me with the men. Don’t ask how that happened, it just did. We took a few practice hits. I fell. Hey, we were in the sand. I fell again. And again. The game hadn’t even started. Another man came up (my shanghaied friend’s husband) and went to the “girl’s” side. Right away my team traded me to the girls for Chris. Fine. We could handle a bunch of up-tight people who couldn’t bear the thought of having someone fall on their side of the court once or twice.
My husband was on that team, by the way.
So we started the game. The girls did okay. We’d get ahead, they’d catch up but never pass us up. I fell a few more times. I hit the ball into the net, and almost into Lori’s head once, and then, I figured it out (old kinetic memory, I guess) and started hitting the ball back over the net. Cool. The others got into it as well. We got a little farther ahead.
Sigi ditched us, and we stayed ahead. Four puny, weak, useless women—including the one who kept falling down—against five manly, macho, strong, perfect men. (granted, they had one team member who is challenged physically, but we gave him lots of room). Yeah.
The girl who started it all? Her father came running up from the now finished game (the one they wouldn’t let her join) and joined the guys’ team.
No fair, we yelled. That’s six against four. You have to join us.
Bad move. Do you know how fast we lost? He never missed hitting the ball—straight into the net. Or out of the court all together. Or flat out into the sand.
So we lost, according to them, and to the score. But you know, maybe it was the best thing. After all, how devastated would those poor, sensitive guys have been if they’d lost???
We know we won. We’re just bigger than they are, and didn’t have to prove it.
And I’m still feeling the effects of falling down. You know what that kind of impact (even on sand) does to someone with fibro?
So I’m spending a little time in bed again.
Friends are coming tomorrow, too early! –to help me stage the house for buyers and brokers and whoever else needs to walk through. Pray we do a good job. Pray it sells.
I’m pretty sure God is going to let it happen this time, though.
