Volleyball

When my brother and I were young, he and I would play volleyball using a somewhat flat soccer ball and the clothesline. It was a coveted activity that we would return to over and over again on lazy summer days. His court was made up of the corner of the shed, two of the posts that held up the deck, and an empty milk carton, triangulated to make a rectangle longer from side to side. Mine was marked by the corner of the cement patch (which I had to avoid gingerly to prevent stubbed toes and scuffed feet, summertime being synonymous with bare feet) and another milk carton. My court was a rectangle longer from front to back, and many times discussion would turn to the advantages or disadvantages of each court, but being stubborn as boys are, we never switched or even rotated.

I remember one particular dispute, which dealt with a potentially game-changing point. I had battled my brother back and forth for this last point, straining every muscle, conjuring every ounce of swiftness and dexterity I could until-

“Yes!” I screamed. My brother had failed to return the ball. In fact, he hadn’t even made an attempt.

“That was under,” he said calmly, picking up the ball and readying himself for another serve. He required only one more point to take the whole game.

After my initial shock at his call, we went back and forth, me saying it was over, him saying under, never once reaching what anyone would call a shouting match as one might expect boys our age to do (he and I were both trying, I now realize, to embody our stoic and often composed father). I laughed the issue aside – obviously he was crazy. And I had the last word, calling on my religious sensibilities. “We’ll see when we get to heaven. You’ll see.”

He “won” the game, and after a few days things were back to normal – or as normal as they could be. After that fateful game, our dad hit the ball with the lawnmower blade.