Grunt It Out

I don't usually like to make fun of others, especially on a public profile such as this where a handful of people might read, but after volleyball this past Thursday I have no choice.

Let's start with a little review of tennis. Watching it on TV you might notice that people grunt, a lot, when they hit the ball across the court. I don't know if it's involuntary or if it's intimidation. Tennis, a weird world I don't understand. Volleyball with its similar ball over the net concept I do, or thought I did.

The team we played against in our first game had plenty of vocalization. "Mine, yours, go, in, out...uhhnechaaa" or in my terms the longest loudest grunt heard during indoor coed volleyball. One tiny girl made that noise  every time she touched the ball. She hits uunng, she digs uuhhhaaa, she serves grruuuhhh, she sets oopphhh, she passes easily uuuunnnhhhh. Except it wasn't that fluid. Reread that sentence like this: She hits, someone sets, she expresses her efforts verbally.

The grunts had a two-three second delay which caused me to laugh hard, uncontrollably and when she served into the net. I think she noticed because the grunts became inaudible afterwards.

It’s Not Me, It’s You…

Taking the high-road is not always my choice of travel. Especially if it involves a clueless boy dragging me around to restaurants, movies, sporting events or even the random finger-painting adventure. After each such night I’ve closed my door, sighed and rolled my eyes horrified at my own abrasiveness and at their ability to ignore the obvious—a lack of chemistry.

But maybe it’s not their fault maybe it’s possibly to feel a strong one-way connection. With that thought I can forgive the ignorance. I’ve had my share of passing hotties that were soul mates in denial. That was the comforting theory until Saturday.

Playing in a doubles volleyball match I started the morning with a bang. By that I mean shot dead as in the original tournament with its soft sand, pool access, bbq and rocking music was cancelled. A few of the teams withdrew at the last minute leaving the rest of us to shuffle our way down the valley to another tournament without perks. Not even a crummy brown T-shirt because we were late registration. Only the diehards and fools would continue with this day.

Fools we were as we stepped onto the grass court for our first game. We actually had reasonable expectations of passing, serving, setting and hitting the ball over the net. What’s worse is we actually failed those expectations. After the third point an unimaginable truth nailed me in the chest, we had no chemistry. We couldn’t pass to each other, we didn’t know where the other was on the court. We collided, stole balls, and watched others drop. We set too far out, too far off the net and too far to the other side. It was every bad date I’ve endured rolled in one punctuated by our accumulating losses.

Towards the end of the day, after we’d conferred and coached and strategized my partner looked at me and confirmed my horrors. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t her, it was the lack of US.

“We don’t have chemistry,” she bluntly whispered. “We can’t find a rhythm and we’re dying on the court.”

It hurt a little, and I didn’t want to acknowledge it but I knew she was right because I’d thought the exact thing hours before.

The tournament was a bust but we left resolved to work on our chemistry, to play more and develop rhythm.

Her direct remark confirmed another suspicion, that the lack of chemistry is felt by both parties. Every bad date knows that the butterflies aren’t flying, but some of the hopeful romantics blindly believe that time with beauty will eventually evoke sparks.