The 9th of June, 2011, started as many other days are wont to do; the sun rose, followed by people, and finally by myself. I customarily swung myself from the bed, satisfied the stomach and had a drop of the restorative brew before setting off to join the workforce. Not once did the intention of embarrassing myself enter the mind in the morning. Indeed, should such thoughts present themselves, I would be very concerned. No, it was not until a good three-quarters of the day had expired that the day itself decided that it had been wholly unremarkable up to that point, and set out to rectify the situation. Unfortunately for me, I was to be the victim of a tragic comedy.
Four O'clock hurtled towards me. Four O'clock arrived. Four O'clock hurtled away from me. Several minutes shortly thereafter, I was posed a seemingly innocuous question "How'd you like to play volleyball tonight?" Being of a competitive disposition I readily accepted. I consider myself to be somewhat athletic, and figured that my leaping ability would be all I needed to dominate middle aged men, even in a sport with which you could not even call me casually acquainted. "Great" I replied, "I'll see you at 6". This time too, came to pass. I imagined myself playing the position of spiker, where one need only jump and drill the ball with all possible force approximately straight down, as long as it goes on the other side of the net. Not much to it, after all, if it can be done in sand, it must be twice as easy on a court right? Wrong. When I showed up, to my horror, I was greeted by only three other people. And these were no ordinary people, let me tell you. These people have played volleyball religiously for the past ten years.
Not thirty seconds into the first game were my greatest flaws exposed; when a serve came at me, I was like a deer in the headlights. I froze. Then, too late, I blindly thrust out an arm or two. I hoped for the best. The best was not often to be found. With alarming regularity, the ball ricocheted off my outstretched arms in almost unimaginable angles. This was not the only problem; judging the size of the court must take some experience. Several times I watched the ball whistle past my head as I stood motionless, absolutely convinced that it would land out of bounds. It most certainly did not, and I looked like an idiot. In two-on-two, my liabilities were magnified beyond the level of comfort. Many chances to look like an idiot present themselves, and I wasted few of them.
This went on for a good two hours, during which I improved in every aspect except making the ball go where I wanted it to go. By the end, fatigued, physically and emotionally drained, I decided I had had enough. The crazy thing though, is that not a singly lesson was learned. I stupidly agreed to show up regularly on these Thursdays. I expect things to deteriorate rapidly. If anyone would care to share tips to prevent this kind of atrocity from repeating itself, or, more importantly, so you won't have to read such a recollection, it would be greatly appreciated. With that, I call it a day.
Goodnight and enjoy,
Ian
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