I have fallen in love. No, there is no new beau involved; just an old flame from high school who has raged back into my life like a bull let loose in the streets of Spain. This love does not involve texting, or creepy Facebook messages which always make me wonder exactly how someone found me when my page is so private my own father can't access it. Then again, my father did ask me the other day how to send a picture message - not so tech-savvy, that one.
Enough with the shenanigans. Here it is: I love beach volleyball. The new sandy courts by Memorial Gym remind me of the hours spent setting up nets in my high-school gym, trying to avoid being drafted to carry the poles from the locker room because I was the biggest one and that means "I was built to do heavy lifting." It's not true; I was delicate back then. 6-foot-3, 180 pounds. Certainly not built for heavy lifting.
When I saw the sand courts being set up, I had visions of making the pseudo-beach my domain once basketball season ended. I would hit the ball with the ferocity of a wild animal and serve so hard people would dive away in fear. My passing skills would bring everyone to shame. I would recover my high-school glory on the sand.
Brace yourselves, dear readers. My first game did not leave me looking like an Amazonian beach volleyball queen, nor did it leave people desiring to follow me day and night pleading for tips on how to spike like I did. No, this first game was a mess. It took me seven tries to get one serve over the net. My team erupted in cheers when it finally reached the other side of the court. I cheered as well, but inside I seethed. I used to be good at this. The ultra-competitive monster in me had arisen, and it was hungry for redemption. Redemption I never would receive.
I played for two hours, my feet getting stuck in the sand and balls dropping next to me at least eight times. I made awkward, illegal setting motions for which my high-school coach would have kicked me out of the gym. I whacked more volleyballs into the net than I have put basketballs through the hoop in years.
But, there I was, the next gorgeous spring day, in a cut-off and shorts my mother does not know I own, attempting to become a better beach volleyball player. I would not allow myself to be embarrassed, I thought. But for some reason, despite my bold mental declaration, it kept happening.
After a week or so of laughing like I wasn't embarrassed when a ball hit me in the face as I called "Mine!", I had my first good serve. The opponents were taken aback as the ball spun hard into the sand faster than their legs could bend into a dive. My teammates said the words I had been waiting for: "Nice serve."
It felt as though I had reached my goal. I was rusty, but after a scant week I was a volleyball demon again. Then, the guy on the other side of the net spiked the ball down into the dirt in front of me. I dove, a little too late. I stood up again, hands empty, covered in sand.
My relationship with beach volleyball has become healthier during these past few days. I no longer am compelled to yell aggressively for people to get off the court so I can play. I no longer say my missed digs are flukes. I have accepted that my volleyball days are, perhaps, behind me. "Never say never," but I think my former glory is either unattainable as I pursue a career in D1 basketball, or maybe my volleyball days were not as glorious as I imagined. I seem to remember my high-school coach placing her head in her hands more than once at my expense. Either way, volleyball, I love you, I hate you, and I'll see you next week.
Simone's column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached s.egwu@cavalierdaily.com.
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