Tuesday night, the heat -- and the prospects of sure defeat -- kept our volleyball opponents from showing up. 104 degree heat is extreme. But you should still show up.
After we got warmed up, I had a good lather going already. When it became clear the team wasn't showing, we sent someone inside to claim our "forfeit" prize: a $25 gift card. I still wanted to play. So did one other guy. No one else from our team did, even though we had enough to go 4-on-4. So the two of us decided to go at it, one on one, mano a mano.
One on one volleyball is tough, man. Not a lot of volleys in that competition, just lots of running, diving, serving. And sweating. Lots of sweating.
Put it this way: Jordan vs Bird, NBA One on One was a great Nintendo game, because one on one basketball is fun. One on One Sand Volleyball will never be a Nintendo game, because it sucks. Hell, it shouldn't even be attempted in real life. But there we were.
Early in the game, I chased after a ball out of bounds, only to come smack against a picnic table. Jumping onto and subsequently over said table, I landed on the other side, ball in hand, face in the sand. The sweatyness of my face was like Elmer's Glue to that sand, and it was stuck everywhere. Awesome. I looked like a bad Halloween costume version of George Michael, sand on my face substituting for his permanent five-oclock shadow.
The score went back and forth, and after losing the serve at 7-5, my legs had very little "up" left in them. The heat, and the picnic table jumping incident, had sapped every ounce of strength out of them. I lost two points in a row when my legs failed me and I couldn't jump high enough to get balls hit over my head. I backed up, trying to keep everything in front of me. But my legs also couldn't run anymore, and I lost a couple more points.
The guy I was playing said, "You spend more time in the sand than David Hasselhoff!"
Touche. Nice Happy Gilmore reference.
After he went ahead 8-7, he yelled across the net that he was hungry. I told him I had some Triscuits in the car on the way over, and that he should have had some. He responded that if I had offered some to him, he would have enjoyed them too.
At 9-7, I got up from diving, staggering like I'd been run over by a Volkswagon.
At 10-7, I went to my happy place, where Shooter and a midget prance around to piano music expertly played by Chubbs.
At 11-7, I threw in the towel, proclaiming that the first one to 12 won, knowing damn well it wasn't going to be me.
Do you know how difficult it is for me to admit defeat? Hard. But when your legs are done, they're done. Besides, we had $25 in free beer coming.
The lesson here is never play one-on-one sand volleyball in 104 degree heat against a marathon runner.
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