an elixir called Volleyball

Sand. A ball. The net. Friends. Warm Texas evening. Once upon a time, Thursday was reserved. Work over for the day, I would wade through traffic with a smile. At home, I would change, eat a snack, fill a jug with tea or water and relax. An hour later, I was on the road to the court, anxious to be in motion. For three hours or more, I knew nothing but the camaraderie of my team, the stinging smack of fast leather against my fist, and the course grain of sand surrounding my feet and caked to my legs and clinging to every fiber of clothing. For three hours or more, there were no computers, no project planning, no phone calls; just a mind and body focused on the game.

I am not an athlete (though I could easily have played one on TV), and lack the grace of movement required to be consistently good. But there was no doubt that I loved volleyball. There are other sports that have demanded my attention such as swimming or soccer or hiking, but volleyball is the pinnacle.

For a period of roughly eighteen months, I devoted time each week to the crafting of an email in the hope that careful diction, colorful metaphor, and clever phrasing would persuade the less inclined to participate. I humor myself with the thought that this affected some. Most evenings, we would be spread out over multiple courts in multiple teams; twenty-five to thirty playing at a time. Never in my life have I felt like I had more friends. Skill was never important; there was always one aspect of the game a person was better at than anyone else. I am good at serves and the surprise return, others whose spike inspires dread, still others whose efforts are concentrated on not letting the ball touch the ground (which is bad, btw).

Then came a time when our usual courts became unavailable, which did not precede by much the lack of access to our alternate court. A fervent search for a new court yielded nothing that felt convenient for the group, and playing opportunities grew sporadic. As of this writing, it’s been a year since I played consistently.

There is nothing I miss more than those Thursday nights. Sure, there are things that I desire more and have not attained, but the loss of something once familiar seems a deeper wound. I remember thinking even then how strange it was that this activity should remain popular so long to so many. I want it back, and yet it can never be what it was.

I suppose it’s not just those Thursday nights. Now I see those games as a representation of the amalgam of all the games I’ve ever played during family reunions, lazy college afternoons and retreats. They have become a conclusion to one chapter of my life, and are now indexed beneath the warm sepia tones of laughter and accomplishment and the binding threads of human experience. Play it again, Sam.