Monday, April 24, 2006
VOLLEYBALL TOURNAMENT
Last weekend Memaw and I journeyed to Orlando where we met up with our favorite sixteen year- old granddaughter Larissa, who had ridden with a team mate and her parents to participate in a volleyball tournament. Larissa’s mom, our favorite oldest daughter would be detained by other events and we were her stand in. We each live in opposite directions and Orlando is sort of in the middle.
When she got to our room she was so excited! Earlier in the day she had gotten her drivers license and the first thing she did was show it to us.
Of all the sports our children and grandchildren have been involved in girl’s volleyball is to me the most exciting. I can’t explain it but others agree.
The games were played three with each opposing team. Wins, losses, and points were tallied and more games scheduled until ……………I don’t know what, we didn’t stay ‘til the end. “Our” girls played until late Saturday night and began again early the next morning when they were eliminated from the competition. They were nearly always busy. When they weren’t engaged in competition they were usually involved in the refereeing process.
The entire event was a roller coaster of emotions; exalting when victorious and agonizing at times of defeat. Ritual little dances, cheers, hugs and sometimes tears, and above it all the sounds of eight simultaneous games in one room. Whistles were whistling, coaches and spectators shouting, balls thudding, (and hitting spectators,) a controlled cacophony of chaotic confusion. We cheered until we our throats were sore and we could barely talk.
And then favorite daughter handed me a copy of a newspaper. In it was a photo of her standing with her bike wearing her cycling gear and the prosthesis she wears in place of her left leg. The article chronicled an abbreviated history of her life as a cancer survivor, leading up to yet another combination sports and fund raising event. Amidst the din I sat in my lawn chair at the edge of the court and cried.
It doesn’t matter if she is an infant, a teen-ager involved in sports, or your favorite forty three-year old daughter. There’s just something about a little girl.
Ain’t God good?
Shalom Y'all
Poppy
Last weekend Memaw and I journeyed to Orlando where we met up with our favorite sixteen year- old granddaughter Larissa, who had ridden with a team mate and her parents to participate in a volleyball tournament. Larissa’s mom, our favorite oldest daughter would be detained by other events and we were her stand in. We each live in opposite directions and Orlando is sort of in the middle.
When she got to our room she was so excited! Earlier in the day she had gotten her drivers license and the first thing she did was show it to us.
Of all the sports our children and grandchildren have been involved in girl’s volleyball is to me the most exciting. I can’t explain it but others agree.
The games were played three with each opposing team. Wins, losses, and points were tallied and more games scheduled until ……………I don’t know what, we didn’t stay ‘til the end. “Our” girls played until late Saturday night and began again early the next morning when they were eliminated from the competition. They were nearly always busy. When they weren’t engaged in competition they were usually involved in the refereeing process.
The entire event was a roller coaster of emotions; exalting when victorious and agonizing at times of defeat. Ritual little dances, cheers, hugs and sometimes tears, and above it all the sounds of eight simultaneous games in one room. Whistles were whistling, coaches and spectators shouting, balls thudding, (and hitting spectators,) a controlled cacophony of chaotic confusion. We cheered until we our throats were sore and we could barely talk.
And then favorite daughter handed me a copy of a newspaper. In it was a photo of her standing with her bike wearing her cycling gear and the prosthesis she wears in place of her left leg. The article chronicled an abbreviated history of her life as a cancer survivor, leading up to yet another combination sports and fund raising event. Amidst the din I sat in my lawn chair at the edge of the court and cried.
It doesn’t matter if she is an infant, a teen-ager involved in sports, or your favorite forty three-year old daughter. There’s just something about a little girl.
Ain’t God good?
Shalom Y'all
Poppy
