2000-05-31

Down with Volleyball!

Yesterday was Th' Cump'ny Pic-nic for us tireless theatre workers. It was a lovely spread, with plenty of beer and wholesome activities to keep us merry and occupied. Frisbees. Hackey-sacks. Volleyball.

Dear God...not volleyball.

Now, I love my coworkers. Most of the time, I even love my job. I'll stay late into evenings and even come in on Saturday mornings for the Greater Good� of the organization. I've operated creaky old freight elevators and hauled cases of champagne. I've worked here for 7 years now, and I'd streak nekkid down Huntington Avenue if it'd increase subscription sales. I consider myself to be a fairly contented and loyal employee.

Just don't make me play volleyball.

I hate it.

I would rather dive headfirst into a cesspool than play volleyball.

I can pinpoint the precise moment when whatever gossamer-thin borderline-positive relationship I had with this sport crumbled into dust and vanished into the wind. 10th grade P.E., 1985, Hingham High School. Picture yours truly, bespectacled, in a Pee Wee Herman� t-shirt, paint-spattered sweatpants and pink hightops, surrounded by hulking blonde male specimens of hale-n-hardy New England stock (Ancestors on the Mayflower! Dances at the Yacht Club!), none of whom pay me the slightest bit of attention at any other time of the day. But miss that ball and, boy howdy, every well-scrubbed face in that gym is scowling at me, cursing my name for losing points that aren't supposed to count.

One fine day, after we'd been playing volleyball every other day for the better part of a semester, I decided that I just wasn't going to take it anymore. So I walked off the court mid-game and perched myself on the bleachers, where I studied my cuticles with intense interest. Mr. Clinton, the wholly unsympathetic P.E. teacher, finally noticed me after a blissful 10 minutes.

"McColgan - you sick?"

"No, sir."

"Hurt, then?"

"No, sir."

"Then what the hell are you doing up there?"

"Well, Mr. Clinton, I'm doing what's right for the team. I'm obviously no good at this, and I'm causing us to lose points that aren't supposed to count."

At this, I heard one of the strapping blondes (either "Chip" or "Tad" or who-the-fuck-ever) pipe up: "Yeah, Mr. Clinton � she sucks!"

I can't quite be sure, but I think Mr. Clinton almost smirked before sending me back into the game.

And so there you have it. I know that playing with my coworkers, most of whom are Recovering Dorks, would be a completely different scene. Warm. Supportive. Fun, even. But old repulsions die hard.

lisamcc at 17:47:57

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