Volleyball by Debbie Mascot
I had to take Physical Education in college. In order to get my degree, they made me. I'm not sure what it had to do with a "well-rounded" education. But they made me. The first week of my first quarter, I tried a few different classes, looking for the perfect lowest impact thing humanly possible. I started with Archery. Bows and arrows. Easy. Fun. Cool.
Nope. It was scary. We got to see a lot of pictures of people with arrows sticking out of body parts that no arrows should be stuck in. Then we went on the field and were given bows and arrows. It was too difficult for my muscle-free arms. I didn't go back.
Tuesday I tried Stretching and Flexibility. How hard could that be? Everyone likes to stretch. But it was taught by the football coach who yelled a lot and was even scarier than archery. He made us take notes on all the muscles in the body and there was to be a test on the textbook chapters one through ten the next class (Thursday). It was too difficult for my double-majored, already-had-14-books-to-read lifestyle. And too scary. I didn't go back.
On Wednesday, I tried volleyball. I thought, "Hey! People play that on the darn beach! How hard can it be?" I pictured running without exertion in soft, powdery sand. I pictured diving playfully for lost balls and laughing happily while the wind and sun kissed my flowing black hair. I pictured all this while walking to the gym for the first class.
And then I got there.
I walked in and there were about 100 students and 4 volleyball nets. No sand or sun; I felt duped. The far court had a bunch of girls already playing. You know the girls. The girls with blonde, streaked hair. Strong leg muscles. Special shoes just for volleyball. Then there was me. In my stretch pants and tennis shoes. Not TENNIS tennis shoes but high-tops. Black high-tops. The other students were all just milling around. Waiting. Nothing to make them really stand out. The only people who stood out were the Girls and me. For entirely different reasons. I hated them.
The instructor came in and said everyone should grab a ball and start volleying it up in the air alone so that he could see our skill level and put us with the proper group. He excused the Ms. Perfects from this and they continued playing. Turns out they were the actual girls' volleyball team. I hated them more.
I started doing that thing the others were doing. Hitting the ball up in the air by myself. I thought I was doing it pretty well. Only dropped it 20 or so times and it never even came crashing down on my head or anyone else's.
After a few minutes, the instructor, cliched-whistle and all, told us to stop and he walked around and pointed people to different courts while making notes on his clipboard. He got to me and said, "Your name?" I answered and he said, "Okay, Debbie, why don't you just stay right here and get some extra practice in with Bob. Once you get a little better, we'll put you in with the beginner group."
I wasn't good enough to be a beginner. But wait. It gets better.
Bob was in a wheelchair and I think maybe mentally handicapped as well. I actually enjoyed my few minutes lobbing the ball back and forth with ol' Bob, but was afraid the ball would knock the oxygen tube out of his mouth, so I had to be extra careful.
That was my last day at volleyball. And I gave up on P.E. for that quarter. The next quarter I found a different Stretching and Flexibility class taught by the greatest teacher. He played classical music, turned the lights out and directed the seniors (seniors as in "citizens" not seniors as in "the year after juniors") and me into different stretching postures. I learned to love going to my PE class for a nap.
Someday I'll share my high school weight training story. But not today. I already
feel like a lowly cretin after remembering the volleyball story.