VBall Insanity

After kicking off the blog with a rant how about a rave...

I can be incredibly stupid.

An opponent came up to me on the volleyball court a couple of weeks ago and asked "Are you 'Gunga'?"

Startled, I replied "Yes I am"

"I work for your brother."

"Wow!"

However, knowing now that a report of my performance might be delivered, I upped my game. I flopped around that court like a crazed rag doll going for every ball that no 47 year old should ever attempt. My serves turned into fireballs. I dove! I jumped! I spiked like there was no tomorrow!

Why? I dunno. Maybe 'cos my brother, though younger, was always the jock of the family. I was the "cultured, if effete, bookworm". (Picture this, Christmas1972. My brother gets a pair of hockey skates. Me? Although pricier {I allowed myself to imagine}, I get a pair of figure skates. Who knew.)

I could not walk the next day. There is not a muscle that did not ache. There were muscles that I did not know I possessed that ached though I was pleased to know that I had muscles that could ache there. I was bruised, black and blue. Floor meets Gunga, Gunga meets floor with earsplitting creaks and cracks. And though it hurts, I think the floor took the better beating. Going down is always so easy. Getting back up, well, it took three teammates to get me back on my feet.

I asked to join my brother's Christmas party and announced: "I will be the one in a wheelchair".

I emailed my sister-in-law this pathetic saga asking her to pass it on to my brother as he would get a kick out of me making up for lost time, in a sibling-rivalry genetically induced testosteronic manic episode.