Beach Volleyball Refuge
I really like playing beach volleyball, but I'm not sure I should write about it.
That sentence, taken by itself, is no doubt making you wonder why the hell I titled this post Beach Volleyball Refuge, if I'm not going to write about volleyball.
Well, let me explain.
You see, I write all day long. It's my job. I'm a professional writer, and have been for almost 20 years. I read more and write more in a single day than most people do in a month. There are technical manuals all over the world with my words in them. There are magazine and news features on microfiche in many libraries and archives that feature my name in the byline. There are novels and short stories in the trash bins of several publishing houses and on my hard drive that contain my creative blood, sweat, and tears. And there is a bizarre collection of blogs gracing the Interwebs that requires my attention on a daily basis.
Now, I'm not telling you this to brag or to crow about my accomplishments. Nor do I mention it in hopes that you will heap sympathy upon me for my literary failures. I am relating this to you simply because it is a fact of my life. Granted, it may be that it is a sad, pathetic fact of my life, but it is a fact of my life nonetheless.
Writing is my job.
Don't get me wrong. I love to write. I truly do love it. But being that it is my job, I still need refuge from it occasionally, if for nothing else than to reboot my brain and maintain my sanity. And about 16 or 17 years ago, I wandered into a three-man volleyball tournament at the beach, and though I stunk up the court - and have since stunk up many more courts all over North America, Central America, and even Europe - volleyball became that refuge.
The moment I take off those confining work clothes and don a pair of trunks that have seen so much sand and surf that I'm not sure of the brand anymore, the hassles of the workday start to fade.
When I take a new yellow and white ball and toss up against a sky so blue it alters my own eye color, the stress and tensions of deadlines and commitments begin to break up and wash away like sand under an easy Gulf coast breaker.
Each time I step onto a court in the piercing sunshine, and look across at my friends awaiting the next game, I forget about the pressures of earning my keep with a word processor. I'm just one of the guys.
Every time I hear the hilarious banter on the sideline, or indeed on the court, and see the golden brown bodies on the women's court playing at a high level, adult responsibilities become memories; whispers of memories really, like something seen out of your periphery that you can never really focus on.
The rare occasions when I'm fortunate enough to be in a tight, closely-contested match, there are no meetings, or managers, or conference calls. There are no books to edit or facts to check. There is only the wind, and the sun, and the sand, and the sweat, and the company of my friends.
When I have a good game, when I set well, and when I dig well, and side out, the world that contains jobs and bosses and salaries disappears, becoming instead a microcosm of all that is child-like and fun. And when my tired, aching knees hold up for a victory against the big, young up-and-comers, I once more fit perfectly within that world that long ago came so easily to me.
As the finicky ball tags the line for a final point, and a shower or a dip in the ocean is mere moments away, my mind is free of worry over a difficult project. It's not thinking of the re-writes awaiting me, and probably has even forgotten the meaning of the word. And as the cool water rinses the sand from me, my mind cannot decipher the echoes that reach it from the adult world and it does not care to.
The first swig of cold beer after a volleyball game is matched only by the first boast and exaggeration of the day's play in its glory. Each will grow tastier as the sun sets and the courts empty, and each will leave my head in a fog that contains only the memories of the day. Thoughts of work are not welcome.
And when I climb into bed, and the sheets rub furtively against my slightly reddened skin, I smile because I think only of the laughs, and only of the people, and only of the game. And though I know that I must return to the rat race, I'm comforted, because I also know the beach dreams will play again soon. If I ever need it, that knowledge makes tomorrow worthwhile.
So you see, I'm torn. I'm not sure I should mix my job and my refuge. I'm not sure I should write about volleyball.
But now that I think about it, I suppose I already have.
That sentence, taken by itself, is no doubt making you wonder why the hell I titled this post Beach Volleyball Refuge, if I'm not going to write about volleyball.
Well, let me explain.
You see, I write all day long. It's my job. I'm a professional writer, and have been for almost 20 years. I read more and write more in a single day than most people do in a month. There are technical manuals all over the world with my words in them. There are magazine and news features on microfiche in many libraries and archives that feature my name in the byline. There are novels and short stories in the trash bins of several publishing houses and on my hard drive that contain my creative blood, sweat, and tears. And there is a bizarre collection of blogs gracing the Interwebs that requires my attention on a daily basis.
Now, I'm not telling you this to brag or to crow about my accomplishments. Nor do I mention it in hopes that you will heap sympathy upon me for my literary failures. I am relating this to you simply because it is a fact of my life. Granted, it may be that it is a sad, pathetic fact of my life, but it is a fact of my life nonetheless.
Writing is my job.
Don't get me wrong. I love to write. I truly do love it. But being that it is my job, I still need refuge from it occasionally, if for nothing else than to reboot my brain and maintain my sanity. And about 16 or 17 years ago, I wandered into a three-man volleyball tournament at the beach, and though I stunk up the court - and have since stunk up many more courts all over North America, Central America, and even Europe - volleyball became that refuge.
The moment I take off those confining work clothes and don a pair of trunks that have seen so much sand and surf that I'm not sure of the brand anymore, the hassles of the workday start to fade.
When I take a new yellow and white ball and toss up against a sky so blue it alters my own eye color, the stress and tensions of deadlines and commitments begin to break up and wash away like sand under an easy Gulf coast breaker.
Each time I step onto a court in the piercing sunshine, and look across at my friends awaiting the next game, I forget about the pressures of earning my keep with a word processor. I'm just one of the guys.
Every time I hear the hilarious banter on the sideline, or indeed on the court, and see the golden brown bodies on the women's court playing at a high level, adult responsibilities become memories; whispers of memories really, like something seen out of your periphery that you can never really focus on.
The rare occasions when I'm fortunate enough to be in a tight, closely-contested match, there are no meetings, or managers, or conference calls. There are no books to edit or facts to check. There is only the wind, and the sun, and the sand, and the sweat, and the company of my friends.
When I have a good game, when I set well, and when I dig well, and side out, the world that contains jobs and bosses and salaries disappears, becoming instead a microcosm of all that is child-like and fun. And when my tired, aching knees hold up for a victory against the big, young up-and-comers, I once more fit perfectly within that world that long ago came so easily to me.
As the finicky ball tags the line for a final point, and a shower or a dip in the ocean is mere moments away, my mind is free of worry over a difficult project. It's not thinking of the re-writes awaiting me, and probably has even forgotten the meaning of the word. And as the cool water rinses the sand from me, my mind cannot decipher the echoes that reach it from the adult world and it does not care to.
The first swig of cold beer after a volleyball game is matched only by the first boast and exaggeration of the day's play in its glory. Each will grow tastier as the sun sets and the courts empty, and each will leave my head in a fog that contains only the memories of the day. Thoughts of work are not welcome.
And when I climb into bed, and the sheets rub furtively against my slightly reddened skin, I smile because I think only of the laughs, and only of the people, and only of the game. And though I know that I must return to the rat race, I'm comforted, because I also know the beach dreams will play again soon. If I ever need it, that knowledge makes tomorrow worthwhile.
So you see, I'm torn. I'm not sure I should mix my job and my refuge. I'm not sure I should write about volleyball.
But now that I think about it, I suppose I already have.
posted by Sam Ogden at
10:02 AM
2 Comments:
...and when your phone rings after you've climbed into bed, and it's your completely plastered Bostonian pal who cuts off your stream of consciousness to go throw up, well, that's when the ideal day comes to a screeching halt.
You're quite a guy, Mr. Ogden.
By
Rebecca Watson, at 1:48 PM
Well if it has to come to a screeching halt, I'd rather you be the screecher.
That was pretty funny though. I mean, I've had people get bored talking to me on the phone before, but that was the first time I ever made anyone throw up.
By
Sam Ogden, at 1:55 PM
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