But I went over to spectate, and an equally clumsy coworker said to me, "I can't remember the last time I played volleyball. Can you?"
Actually, I can.
It was in June, 1963.
I had just arrived at a camp experience for young adults who had graduated from high school within the past year or two. I was delighted to reconnect with my old camp friend, Karen, who I never saw at all during the rest of the year. She had a guy with her, a new guy, who was very tall, kind of cute, and had red hair that was not quite the same shade as Karen's. I presumed he was her boyfriend, but soon she wandered off to connect with someone else, leaving the two of us together. Turned out he wasn't her boyfriend, just a guy from her church. At that point he was no longer kind of cute, but actually downright cute. We were just getting acquainted when the call came out: The all-camp volleyball game was about to start!
There was nothing that could have held less appeal for me. But the red-head, it seemed, had been a basketball player, and couldn't keep away from something that involved a net and a ball. And he was getting cuter by the minute. So off we went, one to the green team and the other to the white team.
The guy must have thought me to be cute, too, because he intentionally kept serving the darned ball right at me. I thought it would never end.
I no longer remember which team won. And I've never played volleyball again.
But I married the guy. And he's still pretty cute.