I played in an Old Timers game of volleyball on the weekend.
It wasn’t an organized game for Old Timers per se but by about the third point, most of us looked around the court, down at our failing knees, sideways (as far as our necks would allow) at our aching backs, our not-yet-diagnosed dislocated shoulders and agreed, We. Are. Old.
I remember playing volleyball on my high school and city teams and loving every second of it. It was different from gymnastics where I was out on a series of mats taped together, dancing and tumbling to the A-Team soundtrack with a leotard swallowed whole by two hungry bum cheeks (way before Spanx) and always wondering if I looked as silly punching the air to the sound of machine gun ammunition as I felt.
Volleyball was different. The game was fun but the camaraderie on the court was palpable. We were a team, we worked hard together and we laughed even harder. I miss it.
This weekend, for my husband’s 40th birthday his gift was a volleyball net.
We gathered great friends, neighbours and everyone participated in what was sometimes competitive, always friendly, fun in the backyard.
I instantly remembered a game we played in high school at the end of the season where we invited our mothers to play against our team at a local gym. We were going to mop the floor with them. Who were these old ladies and how could they ever dream they could keep up with us?
It was as though I blinked, switched to the other side of the net and I am now the mother who will soon take on the challenge of playing my daughters a friendly game of volleyball and I will ask myself, “Who are these young punks and how could they possibly have the skill set to carefully place the ball and see the game the way only someone who has birthed three children and had years to think about the game’s subtle nuances the way we can?”
The only difference between the old timer’s game and those we played in high school was the weekend’s endless injuries. They were frequent, they are lingering, potentially permanent and/or degenerative and I think I’m accurate when I say they affected all players at some point during the day.
Oh and when we were young we had “plays.” The simple flash of the number two meant something very calculated was about to happen on the court. On the weekend, it simply meant, “Look bunny ears!”
Here’s the best part, playing as an old timer may have some downfalls and I may or may not have vomited blood the next morning but now we can drink a cold beer during and after a match.
This was frowned upon in high school.
Take that punks.
