Perhaps not "The," but... "A Beautiful Game!" -- VOLLEYBALL!!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Perhaps not "The," but...  "A Beautiful Game!" -- VOLLEYBALL!!

It's not futbol, or Euro football or soccer.  The net's quite high, about 8 feet tall, and smack in the center of the playing surface.  And there's antennae on either side of the net, inside of which the ball must pass.  If you happen not to be a volleyball player, or an aficionado, forget your preconceptions for the moment.  The sport of VOLLEYBALL is quite simply a magnificent activity, and one you can live with as an active player for a remarkably long time -- depending, of course, upon the state of your physical and emotional health.  My wife, Mary, and I have played for more than 40 years, and continue to play competitively at least once per week...  on hardwood-floor courts in the fall and winter, on sand in the spring and summer!

This is an image of a volleyball.

We're talking, here, about "real" volleyball, not the backyard or "jungle" variety that ignores rules, skill and the endless practice required to play like Karch Kiraly (used to play, probably still does...), and the likes of Kerri Walsh Jennings, Jeremy Casebeer, Phil Dalhausser and April Ross  still do -- on the AVP Pro Beach circuit.

Here the author demonstrates the
correct technique for receiving
service and passing the VB to
his setter!

Alright...  alright!  I'm not comparing my current fellow volleyball (hereinafter referred to, for convenience, as VB!) devotees and myself to or in the same company as those mentioned in the paragraph above, but we do adhere to the time-honored rules of the great game.  We pass, set and "kill" (or hit or spike, as one may prefer) with practiced skill, even a modicum of panache, sort of...  (I freely admit, however, my vertical leap has diminished to approximately 6 inches, and I seldom return to earth without knee pain!)  

My wife and I, along with our two (former) partners of long-standing, won at least a dozen league championships, and we four played for many years in six-person leagues.  Currently, my wife and I play each week for two hours in a structured "adult co-ed VB program" sponsored by a suburban school district.  The level of play is generally excellent.  Few of us have sustained serious or permanent injury!  (Well, sure, of course there's always an exception or two!  Drop that raised eyebrow, already!!)

Allow me, please, to amend and append the above just slightly.  Some years ago, my four-person team was engaged in yet another championship match.  We had won the first game or set, while losing the second.  The third was well underway when a seeming painful blow -- as if shot from something or someone -- assaulted my lower right leg.  I collapsed in agony, looking round for the assailant.  Then in full recognition, I felt the back of my right ankle.  Nothing there, no large sinewy cord of connective tissue.  I had incurred a full rupture of the Achilles tendon.  I was dragged off the court by teammates.  Concerned that we might be unable to continue without our full complement of four, our male teammate asked if I were able to stand one-legged on the court and look determined!  I tried, but fell down.  They dragged me off a second time.  

In this photo, we learn the correct
posture prior to the "kill" or
spike, as some might prefer.

As if to heighten the drama and render the episode truly memorable, almost legendary, the remaining three of us -- permitted by officials to play without the injured party -- won the third set and thus the match, awarding our team another championship and the championship T-shirt that was the envy of all of our vanquished opponents.  Including our own four-person squad, the league in which we played was some 10 - six-person teams strong!  (Several weeks later, thanks to surgery, a splint-like boot, physical therapy and time, I was back in the fray.) 

Something the young should understand about the "aging VB player."  At a recent session, Mary, a consumate "digger" of hard-struck kills (spiked VB's), hit the floor soundly, dramatically after making a spectacular play (a dig!).  Young spectators, who happened to be at the gym door that evening, collectively gasped, eyes like exaggerated poker chips, murmuring, "Is she alright?!  Will she get up and continue to play??!!  Shall we go help her...??"  Mary objects to that kind of reaction -- as do all older VB practitioners! --  as if the "seasoned" player somehow hasn't the physical strength and agility to perform the difficult challenges the game demands, and then get herself (or himself) up and ready for the next play.  I mean, would she be on the court if she couldn't perform all of the game's rigors?  Of course, she wouldn't.  C'mon, kids, pay attention!  We're not passing, setting and hitting and then shuffling back to walkers.  We're fit, competent and skilled, not to mention greatly experienced!  [Footnote:  The poker chip eyes of the kids at the door grew even larger when Mary bounced up (um...  rose to her feet with just a touch of struggle) to face the next volley!]   

         

Some of our current VB practitioners are more than 70 years old; some are in their 60s, while others are in their 20s, 30s, 40s or 50s.  One among us can still execute, and with exceptional skill, the "pancake dig" -- palm of hand reaching the floor consecutively with the ball, causing it to pop up to the setter.  He'll be 70 in November!  In our early playing days, we recall a man of 40-something who was an exceptional player, and we marveled that someone "so ancient" could still play the game with such exemplary skill!  The great game has no restrictions based on age.  Some of our fellow players still say "like" to begin and accrete a sentence, while others forget what they wanted to say, or use archaic language such as "icebox" and  "aerodrome."  Makes no difference.  VB is our common language, our shared passion and obsession, a lifestyle, an accumulation of experience and dialogue, a siblinghood, a sacred bond.    

It was my wife's doing initially.  It began with a telephone call.  She and a good friend conversed

In this shot, we observe the author
mimic'ing a Beach AVP Pro expressing
referee contempt and disbelief, as the
aforementioned official makes a
tragically imbecilic call.  

for an hour or more eventually deciding that three couples, one of them my wife and me, would join a VB league and learn how to play the game correctly.  We committed ourselves to the task, spending a great many hours in practice -- serving overhand, receiving service and passing, setting and hitting drills, blocking, diving for hard-hit spikes, digging, yelling, calling "mine" or "yours," insulting our opponents -- doing it all to improve our skills and our abilities to play well and to win, eventually (the gift of time permitting)!  

We began league play as Poet's Pride (having done most of our early practice sessions on a gymnasium court at a school named for a famous bard).  Variously we dubbed ourselves Contempt of Court, Some Flew Over the Cuckoo's Net, South Wind and Spike, Net Loss, Sweethearts...  Silly names that held meaning for us, though we've tried hard to forget why.  

Now, 40 plus years later, the passion continues.  Sure, we've lost some quickness and speed, but gained guile and wit and ball placement skills that can still bewilder opponents, amid added cursing and stomping and balls hurled with great force at heads on the other side of the high net.  I tell you it's a love affair, and it won't end until we do.  

To put it another way...  Volleyball is its own sort of ritual, a kind of religion to those of us still obsessed.  Through it and our history as avid participants -- not only as players but as spectators of college, beach and Olympic volleyball -- we’ve enjoyed its various stages of evolution, made lasting friendships, reveled in its society and its camaraderie and benefitted enormously from its health-enhancing, vigorous exercise.  Quit?  Not likely.  Our new goal is to play until Mary reaches age 70.  After that, who can say?  Eighty?  Eighty-five?  Stay tuned.  Maybe we’ll  film a documentary!  The obsession continues to hold and enthrall us, and will, we hope, until something unexpected comes along and breaks the spell.

(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude:   The perpetrator extends enormous thanks to the following, without whose love and support Volleyball would not have become the obsession (delusion?) it remains today:  Sweetheart, Carol, Jimmy, Steve, Captain Southwind, Jeff, Gene, Bob, Michelle, Shep, Scott, Eric, Jo, Henry, Abie, Dick, Jim, Carol, Ed, Sean, Leslie, Tom, Anna, Margot...  and (with apologies!) anyone I may have missed!      

Humbly Submitted, 08-01-14 -- Joel K.