Volleyball Hurts

Heart-pounding fear, battle cries of the merciless, stinging slaps, screams of terror, tears, and the sounds of attacking orcs; these are all commonplace on Volleyball Wednesday. At 2:30, the teachers at my school meet on the volleyball court, dressed in gym clothes, and ready to win some games. The very first day, I laced up my shoes, trudged to the gym and positioned myself on the sidelines, ready to cheer like nobody's business. That lasted about two seconds. A kind teacher took me by the elbow and led me to the net, placing me in the middle with instructions to spike the ball over the net.
"I'm not very good at this," I protested. "Are you sure you want me to play?"
"You tall!" I was told. "You striker!"
Guess, what? I'm not a striker. My height has nothing to do with it. They quickly figured this out and moved me over one position. Now, my usual spot is in the front right corner. My duties are to 1) try to smack any ball coming my way, 2) failing that, to get out of the way so a more able teacher can hit the ball, and 3) serve the ball with my awesome, U.S.A.-born right arm.
Today was the last Volleyball Wednesday of the semester. I didn't bother changing into gym clothes because I was busy working on lesson planning. When I finally meandered over to the gym, I loitered outside for a few minutes, exchanging meaningful English phrases with a sixth grade boy.
"Hello!" the boy shouted from several feet away.
I stopped and replied, "Hello! What are you doing?"
He swung a baseball bat and pointed to the other boys around him holding various baseball accessories. "Baseball! What are you doing?"
"Volleyball!"
"Okay! Goodbye!"
Pleased with this fairly legitimate exchange, I turned to go in. "Have a good day!"
And then the boy said, "I don't think so!"
I stopped, turned around, and couldn't resist asking, "You don't think?"
"I don't think so!" he shouted.
"You don't think?" I yelled back.
"I don't think so!" he shouted again.
"You don't think?" I asked again, laughing at my own little joke.
"I don't think so!" he replied.
Endlessly amused, I kept at it, marveling at the little quirks of the English language that allows our exchange to convey the message that the little boy doesn't think he thinks.
This went on for a few moments until Head Teacher (to be known as HT) poked his head out of the gym to find out what all the noise was about. He scowled and beckoned me inside. I shuffled over to the side of the gym and slouched down in one of the chairs. The ladies' game was just ending. I cheered for the winning team, slightly smug with the knowledge that I came too late to play.
Then it was time for the men to play. They strutted onto the court with much arm-stretching and took their positions.
Either because it was the end of the semester or because a few teachers just didn't want to play, the men were short players. So guess who got dragged onto court? Yup. Me.
They put me in the back right corner - just a body to fill available space. I hugged the corner of the court, confident that I wouldn't be allowed to touch the ball until it was my turn to serve.
Wrong.
"Hayna!"
I heard the shout too late and watched the ball bounce on the floor right next to me. I looked up and saw HT scowling at me. Through the intonation in his voice and body language he displayed, I understood his extreme disappointment in my volleyball skills. I attempted to convey with facial expressions and bowing that I was extremely sorry that I wasn't up to snuff, but that he knew that already, so why make me play?
The game resumed and I stepped back to allow the men around me to hit the ball. Then the ball came toward me again. I ran for it, Mr. 3-3 ran for it, and we both stepped back, just in time to see the ball hit the ground between us. I looked up at Mr. 3-3, he looked up at me, and we both turned to face HT's wrath. He yelled a bit and I silently translated: "Why didn't you hit the ball? You know Hayna can't play! You know she doesn't yell 'Mine!', like all good volleyball players are supposed to! YOU should yell 'Mine!' every time the ball is on our side of the net so Hayna doesn't make the mistake of thinking she can hit it! You are in charge of hitting the ball from now on! Don't fail me, good sir!"
I missed the ball once more. There was no yelling that time. HT just glared (he has a glare that can make you feel like the crumbs stuck to a cockroach's belly) at me and then at Mr. 3-3, who was failing at Hayna-duty. I made a promise to myself that if the ball came towards me, and if Mr. 3-3 didn't go for it, and if the stars were aligned in the shape of a pony, I would hit that ball with all of my might.
The stars must have been in pony position because I finally hit the ball . . . with my face.
I heard my name, lifted my head, and saw the red, white, and yellow volleyball coming right at me. I raised my arms too late, but managed to guide the ball right into my face. I closed my eyes just in time. I heard an audible thud! and felt the ball hit my right cheek. The pressure of the ball disappeared, leaving behind a numb-like sting. I opened my eyes to see HT jump and spike the ball over the net.
It was game point and our team won. HT himself came over to thank me for my good work.
"You hit ball," he said.
I nodded, one hand held to my stinging face.
"With this!" he said, pointing at my head.
I nodded again.
"Good!" he said. He grabbed my hand and held it out. "Next time, with this!" he commanded.
I wholeheartedly agreed.