Digger

Thanks for the inspiration, Heather.  This one's for you.

Fiction

When the church volleyball league announcement was posted in the Sunday bulletin, I couldn’t help but think that might be something I’d enjoy.  After all, I did play volleyball in 8th grade intramurals for two weeks everyday before school.   How hard could it be?  Being new to the church, it might be a good way to meet some of the other moms and get to know them outside of the sanctuary and choir loft.  So right after the service was over, I waltzed over to the activity table and signed up.  Mrs. Peters said the coach would be contacting everyone by Wednesday to schedule practices and to find out what position we wanted to play.    The coach? Position? This little church league has a coach and I need to play a specific position?   Eighth grade intramurals never played positions.  We just all stood on our side of the net and when it was our turn to serve, the P.E. teacher told us where to stand.  I began to feel duped and like the middle-aged woman I really was. 

Come Wednesday night, I hadn’t heard from the coach and began to feel a little sigh of relief.  Perhaps there was a shortage of players.  That would be a graceful way out.  I began to practice my disappointed voice for when the coach called.  “Oh, really?”  “Not enough players?”  “Well, maybe next year.”  The phone rang just then and startled me out of my rehearsal.  It was the coach.  “Yes…Uh, huh…Yes, I’ve played before...Digger (I had looked up volleyball positions on line yesterday and liked that one best)…Tuesday’s at the church’s Fellowship Hall at 7:00pm…Great…See you then.”  I hung up the phone and once again felt that familiar pang of “why did I sign up” feeling of stupidity.  I will never learn. 

Not being a quitter, I had to go to practice on Tuesday.  I bought a pair of shorts that looked a little more athletic than I really was (ok, I’m not athletic, but didn’t want them to know that.  How could a Digger not be athletic?) When I got to Fellowship Hall, all the women were changing their shoes and putting on their volleyball shoes.  I knew this was going to be bad, but couldn’t turn around fast enough in my Keds and get out the door before Mrs. Peters, Linda, came over and told me how glad she was to see me again and how happy they were to have a Digger this year.  I thought I was going to faint.

We did a warm-up lap and then took our positions. All I had looked up on-line was that Diggers were on the back row, so that’s where I took up residence.   When our server, Sheila, did her warm-up serves, I not only felt faint, but the nausea was beginning to take over. Church league volleyball was to be fun.  Church league volleyball was for socializing and joking and laughing.  This was not going to be any of that.  Our coach, Jan Martin, marathon runner and college All-Star volleyball player, had a clipboard, a whistle and legs that went from her lower lip down to the ground.

Jan blew the whistle and away Sheila’s serve went.  The other ladies on the other side of the net set it up and then as I watched the ball, it seemed to be making a beeline right for me.  I couldn’t duck or that would be the end of me and all church leagues to come and I’d never get another chance to ever meet any of these women socially.  So I did what all Diggers do.  I dove for the ball with both arms stretched out in front of me and prepared to set it up for my team down low.  That’s when it happened.  My Keds deceived me and as I lunged forward, my right foot planted itself into the old wooden floor and my right ankle kept on going.  I screamed as if I had given birth to my now 10 year old all over again.  Everyone came running and helped me into a chair. Jan called my husband, who couldn’t stop laughing all the way to Urgent Care. 

All the ladies were so thoughtful the rest of the week.  We had a blueberry pie for dessert on Wednesday, fried chicken and coleslaw on Thursday and on Friday, Jan brought over a pink t-shirt that said “MANAGER” on the back in bold black letters.  I immediately accepted the position and began to confess that I wasn’t really a Digger.  Jan smiled at me and chuckled and told me that I hadn’t fooled any of them but appreciated my honesty.  I went on to ask her what had given me away.  Surely not my Keds or my blue athletic shorts with the white stripe down the side?  She pointed to my hands.  I laughed out loud. My French manicure said it all.  Diggers don't have nails, let alone polished ones.

On game day, me and my sprained ankle sat right next to Jan and passed out water bottles to all the ladies on the team. I gave high fives to all of them as they came off the court.  They loved that I had also brought homemade chocolate chip cookies with me for half-time.  It was the best of both worlds.  I didn’t really have to play volleyball, and I met the sweetest bunch of volleyball smashin’ women around.  Church volleyball league was going to be as great as I had imagined it would be after all.

Go UMC Spikers!