Fading Glory

I lie, I lie, I lie. And in the face of the truth I rationalize. My recent offense occurred a few weeks ago when I enthusiastically signed up for a weekend volleyball tournament. I excitedly told everyone about it. I rescheduled therapy sessions. I imagined two days of digging and swinging.

That was the first lie. I don’t swing. I’ve never been a hitter and my short attention span makes it difficult to get the timing down. Back row pass, setter’s got the ball, she’s sending offside, that’s me, start the approach, wow those are bright coral shorts, reminds me of a flower in Dublin, or maybe it was Monet’s garden. Suddenly I’ve jumped with my right arm stretched. I hastily finish the swing while shifting focus back to the falling ball. Sometimes I even hit it with my hand.

Tonight while flailing pathetically on the court, I silently cursed my talent and contemplated why I continue to play with a broken body, not to mention the ghosts of indoor play. My team got hammered from all fronts. Our opponents’ seven foot stars out shining our nearly five foot midgets. Their girls were taller too.

I held on to hope that we’d find a rhythm, save our dignity and appear as competitors. I rallied, thinking myself a fierce intimidating threat. Then a visitor from my past showed up. We hugged hello and I apologized for making her watch our games. She smiled and proclaimed to be happy with anything as long as she could stay the night at my apartment. She was driving through Salt Lake on a holiday trip from Portland to Denver.

We chatted a bit and soon I stretched in preparation for the next match. It crossed my mind that I had been a little distracted earlier and I expected my abilities to improve now that I wasn’t worried about my visitor. It may have worked had my visitor not offered a confession that detected my second lie.

“I wasn’t sure how I was going to find you. It’s been about five years since I’ve seen you,” she said. “And that was only for few hours. So I just looked for a short, petite brunette.”

Any other day, say when I’m pool side in a bathing suit, I would welcome the petite suggestion. Short never passes as a compliment. I felt more like a harmless kitten and less like a powerful lioness; no one finds short and petite intimidating on an eight foot net.