08.07.2001 - 5:20 p.m.

Played volleyball yesterday. A friend invited me because he knew I missed playing, but pretty much everyone else was a complete stranger.

I didn't worry too much about learning names. I'm terrible at it, and in any case names on a volleyball court don't really matter. Just the playing does. I'll admit, though, there was one name that I picked up pretty easily. It was Woody, which I suspect was a nickname. I also suspect he was quiet, at least when he wasn't around good friends. Like most of the other males, he was playing shirtless. He was thin and not very tan or muscular, but he played well, especially on the net where his height gave him the advantage. And even though he didn't know me, and even though I wasn't on his team for most of the night, he would flash a smile at me whenever someone said or did anything amusing, as if to make sure I shared in the joke.

All of which was interesting to me, because if I can be said to have a type, it would be skinny, quiet, and thoughtful.

Later we were on the same team, and he was ahead of me in the rotation. We got the serve, but he didn't notice me coming up to take his spot. I wanted to poke him, in a flirty way. I thought maybe he'd like to flirt with me, if we weren't complete strangers, and if there were a chance we'd ever meet again. I suppose I should have poked him precisely because we'd never meet again. But instead, my finger stopped short, and I just said, "Poke, poke. Rotate." I didn't even make eye contact. I tried not to worry about how that must have sounded. Ah well.

In the end, I got some exercise and some sexual tension, but most importantly I got to play, and with challenging people, too. There is nothing, but nothing, as wonderful as the connection and exuberance you feel when you are truly a part of a team, especially if they are strangers with no outside reason to bond with you. When every single move is perfect, and you know exactly what the other team will do next. That's what I had really missed about volleyball, and I was playing with a good group for it.

Which is why I didn't leave until nine-thirty or so, when the magic finally fizzled out.

I drove home in the dark on highway 5, which grew more and more deserted as I went. My arms and legs, dusted with bits of mica from the sand, glistened in the moonlight. The moon was almost red with purple shadows like the Grand Canyon at dawn, and it was the most beautiful moment on earth.

Except that I was sweaty, gritty, and sore. I was sitting on a jacket to protect the seat from myself. I had five gallons of driving to do, but only two and a half in the tank. And the moon, several days off of full, was actually kind of lopsided.

I would like to be able to report that driving home was an absolutely sublime experience, a fitting cap to a night of good volleyball, but I was too overwhelmingly tired to enjoy it.

When I got home, I dragged my bags up to my room, took a long shower to de-sand myself, and finally collapsed on the bed. Even the surrender to fatigue was a failure as a sublime moment -- I have no AC, so my damp hair only added to the stifling mugginess in my room. I woke up this morning stiff and bleary.

But I'd do it all again for one good volley.

-stonebridge

previous | next