Pickles & Dimes

It started with an email. Our friend’s girlfriend, whom I’ve met twice, asked if I played volleyball. Turns out she had exhausted her list of people and was desperate for someone to sub. I hemmed and hawed: The last time I played was about seven years ago, I’m not the athlete I used to be, and the game started at 8:30 p.m. Since I am 80 years old, the thought of leaving my home on a weeknight was abhorrent. I called Jason in a slight panic, not wanting to say no, but whining that I probably wouldn’t be home until after 10:00 when I go to bed at 9:30 and that’s just nuts. What am I – some kind of socialite?!?

He reminded me that it was just for one night.

So I said yes, and then dug my old, yellowed volleyball kneepads out from the bottom of a tote hidden in the back of a closet underneath a mountain of Jason’s t-shirts.

Twenty years ago, I played volleyball in high school. In fact, I was somewhat good at it. But since then, I had lost something significant.

My vertical jump.

At 5’5 (and a half!), my vertical jump was what made me. When I jumped, my elbows cleared the net. And because my jumping skill wasn’t obvious from just looking at me, I was constantly overlooked by opposing teams. I’d go to volleyball camps and every time (every time!) they’d assign me to be a setter. I dutifully set the ball for others until I’d get my chance. Then I’d slam a ball on the 10-foot-line, turn to the coaches and say matter-of-factly, “Actually? I’m a hitter.” Good times.

But that was 20 years ago and my ship with the vertical jump had sailed.

So on Wednesday night, when I saw how good the other girls were, I had some doubts. It didn’t help that my shoes were impossibly slippery, to the point I was sure my hamstring was going to detach itself from my leg and point a tendon-y finger at me while laughing hysterically.

But once that ball came floating over the net, everything clicked into place. The game became an automatic, effortless symphony of sliding (literally) back and forth across the floor, watching the ball, placing my serves exactly where I wanted, seeing my spikes landing in between opposing players, and hearing the various cries of “mine” and “got it” and “tip!” There was the familiar smell of dusty gym floors, the THWACK! of the ball as it bounced off my reddened forearms, and the automatic regression to my high school habit of licking my hand and wiping it on the soles of my shoes to improve traction (gross, but surprisingly effective).

At one point, I jumped as an opposing player hit the ball, my wrists clearing the net, and the ball stopped short against my palms – a textbook-perfect block.

Maybe I didn’t lose that much after all.

Afterwards, I felt victorious, young, happy. I hadn’t embarrassed myself. In fact, I had played well. The other girls thanked me for subbing on short notice. I thanked them for letting me play and said to call if they ever needed a sub again.

That’s when they gave each other a look before one of them said, “No. You’re not a sub. You’re on the team. You’ve just been recruited.”

And I felt 17 all over again.

(Minus the never-been-plucked eyebrows.)