Well, Sports Fans, it is officially the end of volleyball season in the Land of Minivans. I know, it’s a sad day. Hopefully, though, it will be quite a while before I am again mistaken for a high school student. I haven’t yet pulled out my Senior year ASB card, but I’m afraid that one of these days it’s going to happen. What do you want to bet that the day I have to do that is the first day I don’t get carded at the bar? Oh the irony…
I like volleyball. I only understand the basic fundamentals of the game; there’s a strategy to a lot of it that I don’t understand, and other than the fact that sometimes people can’t actually hit the ball over the net, I can’t actually tell what makes a good player or a bad player. But the best part is that when you play volleyball, you just look cute. (Damn them…)
First, they put on these skimpy little spandex pants. You would think that these could be dangerous, but no, somehow all of the girls look like they have the legs of Tara Lipinski. They get to wear all the makeup they want. (Ok, so that’s not always a good thing– the raccoon look is still big at that age. Something about looking like a nocturnal, rabid, garbage-rummaging vermin just screams, “Take me to Homecoming! I’ll wear a low cut dress and prompt your mother to talk to you about contraception!”) Their hair all looks perfect. They give each other lots of high fives and hugs. It’s just adorable. After so many years of softball, volleyball is a nice change. I doubt the volleyball girls are concerned about how much mud they get in their teeth. And yes they cheer, and sometimes those cheers are loud and require them to lower their voices, but not like softball chants. The best cheer-er on my last softball team before I quit? Yeah, her name was “Murphy.” Not like all the little blonde “Hannahs” on the volleyball court. (Somehow they’re all Hannah in my mind. There’s really only one Hannah, but they could all be Hannah if they really tried.)
So I’ve been enjoying volleyball. It’s a nice change from my sports experiences; I get to be a semi-objective observer because I don’t really know very much, and it’s all indoors. But today, I found the creepy, paranormal side of this rosey activity.
That’s right. Our high school’s beautiful, brand spaking new gymnasium, in all its concrete gray glory, is haunted. With a screaming banshee.
I wish I could use the alphabet to describe this shriek, but it is impossible. I’m also not adept enough at this new-fangled technology business to record and then post a sound bite. So you’ll have to trust me when I say that this sound was most definitely uttered by a mythical celtic fear-creature and not an overly enthusiastic mother with the most terrifying “encouragement” yell you’ve ever heard. Who then waved a foam stick in the air. Not a foam finger. A stick.
Have you ever heard a feral pig squeal? Neither have I, but I imagine it would sound something like that.
Good lord, woman. Have those vocal chords checked for tears. I think they might have been ripped to shreds, and what we’re hearing is the air desperately trying to escape from your lungs like a balloon released before it’s tied. But instead of the childish and perpetually funny whoopee cushion sound, her throat makes it sound like she enjoys having the hair ripped from her nose.
Oh volleyball. You shall be missed.