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I’ll Let You Bump, Just So Long As I Get to Spike

You wanna know what’s unfair? I’ll tell you what’s unfair.

I play volleyball. I’m not bad at it; I’m not great, but I do okay. I’m good enough that it’s actually interesting for me to watch volleyball on TV, to see what the really good players do, and pick up pointers, that sort of thing.

You know, in the same way that watching golf or skiing isn’t interesting. I’ve tried those those things — I’m not good. I’ve never been good. And I’m never going to be good.

I’m more likely to physically hurt myself playing those things than improving to the point where I could talk about the sport without some measure of personal shame and embarrassment. So I sure as hell don’t want to watch some smart-ass goober on television making me look like a brainless jackass by being infuriatingly good at one of those stupid sports. I’m just too far removed from real ‘talent’ to make it worth my time.

But volleyball is different. I don’t do the right thing often enough on the court, but I occasionally know what the right thing is. So I genuinely like watching volleyball, as a sport.

So what’s unfair about that?

Well, volleyball’s not on the tube too often. Once in a while, they’ll show a college match, but that’s about it for the indoor game. If there’s any interest out there, it’s in the general vicinity of beach volleyball. And why not, right? What could be better than watching ripped, tanned, and nearly-naked members of whichever sex you’re attracted to getting sweaty and sandy and patting each others’ asses?

Nothing, if you’re in the mood for softcore porn. (Which I usually am, of course, but that’s not the point. Stick with me here.)

See, the problem is that I — and, it seems, only I — actually want to watch beach volleyball for the sport it is, and not the pants-tenting adolescent wet dream fantasy that it… well, also is, frankly. And all of that sweaty-girls-in-teeny-bikinis really gets in the way of trying to analyze each point on its strategic merits and athletic execution. Honestly, how can I be expected to take away anything about the game of volleyball from these matches when there are bikini wedgies and bare hips and nipples poking through Spandex all over the place? It’s all very conflicting.

But that’s not the unfair part. That’s just reality. And honestly, I’ve managed to cope with balancing my two, erm, ‘interests‘ in watching women’s beach volleyball. During the points, it’s all business. In between, before and after — and especially during the post-match celebrating — there’s time for a little ogling. I’ve done a lot of work, and honed my mental skills with years of practice, until I can finally, barely, manage to concentrate on volleyball when I’m supposed to.

At least, I could. That’s where the ‘unfair’ part comes in.

You see, I’ve started paying more attention to beach ball recently, and I’ve found the bios of the USA’s top beach players. The more astute among you will note a disturbing trend. Namely, the women players are starting to develop porn star names. Have a look — Misty May? Holly McPeak? Oh, come on!

Look, it’s all I can frigging do to keep my mind on the game as it is, with all the scantily-clad frolicking going on out there. But if I know, in the back of my mind, that one of the women is named ‘Holly Mc-frigging-Peak’?! Forget it! I’m done. With a name like that, the corny porno music could start at any time — if just one pizza guy were to wander onto the court, it’d be all over. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on the game with that hanging over my head?

Hey, don’t laugh, you man-watchers out there — you’ve got the same issues, you know. Dax Holdren? Now there’s a porno character’s name, if I’ve ever heard one. (Not a porn actor’s name, though — that would be ‘Dicks Holdren’.) And don’t even get me started on Kevin Wong.

Anyway, that’s my latest problem, and it’s not damned fair. Plus, it’s getting worse — I’m certain of it. Sure, right now, only two of eight US beach ladies have porn names… but do you really think it’ll end there? We all know who the pimply-faced, heavy-breathing target demographic of these telecasts really are. It’s only a matter of time before we’re sending ‘Christi Crotchless’ and ‘Sandy Nipples’ to the Summer Olympics. Can naked volleyball be far behind?

Say… actually, that’s not a bad idea. Hey, it’s not fair, but that would be hot. Who am I to stand in the way of progress?

Play? Play Ball! And Pour Me a Beer While You’re At It

Step right up, folks. It’s time for this week’s Blogger Idol post. No lines, no waiting. Bring your popcorn and find a seat; the show’s about to begin.

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Week Seven Topic: ‘Play’

Well, this is a timely topic; just this week, I’ve begun to think about ‘play’ again, after several long months of winter. Specifically, I’m ready to ‘play’ one of my most favoritest games, softball. Now, lest you judge me on looking forward to one of the quintessential triumverate of ‘lazy fat man’ sports (bowling and fishing being the others), I’ll tell you a little bit about our team’s softball experience.

First off, we’re called ‘Team Guinness‘. (At least when we’re not being called, ‘that group of lazy fat guys over there‘. Hush up.) Anyway, it’s a nod to our post-game (and for some, pre-game) ritual of schelling out to a bar for food and pints after a hard-fought game. Or an easy-fought game. Or a forfeit. Look, we’re not pick, all right?

Also, we’re a co-ed team, which means that we’re not all lazy fat men.

(See, now, the joke here is to say that ‘some of us are, in fact, lazy fat women‘. But I’m not gonna go there. Partly because it’s simply not true, of course. But mainly because some of the energetic, slim women on our team could probably kick my lazy fat ass. And not in a ‘good’ way, involving lacy teddies and pillows, or bikinis and Jell-O, either. So let’s just move on before I piss one of them off.)

Anyway, the frost is starting to lift from the frigid New England ground, and the sun has been shining lately, and all of that has got me just itching — but not ‘jock-itching, thank you — to get back on the diamond. The early league starts in about a month, so it’s just about time to get out the old glove, and warm up the old arm, and buy the old tub of sunflower seeds to munch on. Softball season hath not arriveth yet, but it will hath arriveth thoon. Er, soon. Arriveth soon. Damn, that’s hard to say.

Of course, I’m particularly pining for the game today — our league plays on sunny Sundays just like this one, and from the relative warmth of my living room, it’s easy to look out there and believe that it’s sixty degrees or more, and that the sandlots are just begging for games to be played.

(At least, it’s easy until I see people out there, bundled up in coats and scarves to stave off the chill. I mean, sure, if there’s just one or two, I can pretend that they’re just crazy hoboes, wearing all their clothes at once for convenience. And I can make myself believe that the steam coming out with every breath is just smoke, that everyone out there on my block is chain-smoking furiously, but that it’s really not cold.

Eventually, though, I come around, and allow that it’s really nad-freezing cold outside, and I should stay indoors, watch TV, and drink beer. Yeah. Life can be so disappointing that way, sometimes.)

Soon enough, though, the games will be on. I play the ‘hot corner’ on my team — that’s third base, for those of you non-baseball followers out there. I like third base, and not just because it’s the euphemism used to describe really heavy petting, either. (Though that helps, believe me.) I also like it because there’s a lot of action there — game action, people; game action… we’re off the ‘petting’ thing already. We copped a feel, and we’re done with that now, all right? Keep up with me here.

Anyway, it’s called the ‘hot corner’ for a reason — hot grounders and line drives scream off the bat in that direction, and runners on the opposing team digging for home come chugging by. (A lot, actually, if you play on my team. I’m thinking of putting in a turnstile to slow them down a little.) It’s a nice place to get some fielding done; you can never let your guard down at third base, and I like that. But I dabble in the outfield, and at first base, too, when needed — third base is home, but it’s nice to see other places once in a while, too. Travelling is fun.

So, that’s what’s on my ‘play’ plate these days. I can’t wait to get back out there — running the bases, taking ground balls off the shins, and arguing bad calls with the blind, cocky, brain-damaged umpires. And then off to the bar for a few Guinness, to relive the horrific loss, bandage my wounds, and try to convince the rest of the team that ‘I can too hit! The sun was in my eyes!‘ Just another Sunday afternoon in paradise. Man, I can’t wait!