The End of an Era

Imagine something you've always done- something you committed to, sacrificed for, and cried over.  It's what you identified with, and half the people you know you met through this one thing.  Sometimes it seems like your life revolves around it- for good or bad.

It's shaped who you are, how you see the world.  You can't outgrow it, even when you stop doing it.  Because you can never just leave-it's a community that remembers you long after you try to go.  It's a lifestyle that you can't forget. 

Volleyball.

Jo and I blocking.  She's still recruitable ;)

SDVBC 17-1, in case you were wondering

Pretty corny, huh?

But I'm finally doing it, finally quitting.  I always told myself I would, but this time I know I am because the reason is a "shouldn't" but a "can't".  Too many other commitments, and I'm just not brave enough to risk it.  Not even for something I think I love.  College, you know?

I'm not even going to try to explain to you my reasons.  But know that they're solid, and that I had to choose between two paths.  The choice itself was simple-I had no future in volleyball.  It was something I enjoyed, and it couldn't give me anything more than health, friends, and lessons in discipline and patience. 

But it was easy to choose the other option.  Not so easy to live with it.

The movements I practiced so diligently, the muscles I so carefully trained are next to meaningless now.  It doesn't matter now how high I can (or can't) jump, how quickly I can react to the ball. 

What ball? It'll never be the same.

The words I need aren't where I thought they would be.  I can't express how like a dance the blocking footwork was, as we traveling along the net during our warmup, how our outstretched arms stretched above the tape and the veins in my wrists looked when they crooked over the top.  They looked pretty weird, bluey and all.

Even messing around on the beach or in open gyms, it'll never be the same.  That sense of urgency, or purpose, and of team will never again exist.  That's what I'll miss most of all.

But I suspect what ties me to a sport I'm too darn short for isn't any of that.  I started playing when I was around 12, just before a noticeable dip in the road.  Sometimes I would bring my problems with me onto the court, but they never left with me.  The ball would smash against the lines I scored into my arm, until I learned to stop putting them there.  Then they found their way onto other places.  Better to wear your scars on your skin than your heart, I think. 

Volleyball wasn't what helped me get better.  But it was there.  That's how these things are.  Sometimes just being there is enough to help. 

Watch for my daughter in the olympics 22 years from now.

Haha.

The Best Place That's Not My Bed

The driveway to my friend Maria's house is almost always completely obscured by cars and shoes coming, and shoes going.

The house that Mama Horan built.  Not with hammers and wooden planks and plaster, but with smiles and hugs and good Italian cooking.

The front hall is warm, welcoming.  The polished floor gleams softly, but don't be fooled-sweep your bare foot along and you will find the ease with which you become a dog hair magnet.  It's nobody's fault that Molly is an olympic-level shedder.  A gift and a curse, really.

The kitchen is the best room in the whole house, except maybe the garage.  It is large but not pretentious, clean but not austere, and exceedingly well-stocked. 

The kitchen that Mama Horan built.  With pancetta and olive oil and good bread-the scent of brewing tea as it hangs in the air, sweeter and headier than a lady's perfume.

They converted their garage into a den.  Large, comfortable couches, a TV, and a fridge.  One time I made virgin Sangria and we kept it in there.  It made an awful mess whenever we tried to pour it.

Sometimes I like it better than my own house.  I like the aura of acceptance here.  Every time I leave I say good bye to Mama Horan by bending down to give her a hug.  Usually she's lying on the couch in the living room, but I have to bend way over even when she's standing because she's so short.  It's very comforting because my mom is way shorter than me too. 

Maria told her about my blog and she wanted me to write about her.  So here is that post, and may it evoke the same hints of a second home, the same lazy Sunday mood.  Perhaps even you, reader, can taste the cheesy mostaccioli, or hear our laughter.

The laughter that Mama Horan shares.  In the house that she built.

Giving Ellen's selfie a run for its money