A mostly accurate report from Wednesday June 24th’s volleyball games
The sunshine trickled out of the heavens like water from a leaky bucket. Beneath the blue-black sky, the poles of a wind-tossed net stretched upward toward realms inhabited by birds and angels alike. A storm was brewing. It wasn’t just the weatherman who knew it.
Cool Beans vs. The Chosen
The scrappy core of the Cool Beans outfit strode onto the grounds. Six sturdy campaigners—steadfast Zach, stalwart Adam, spirited Zoe, strong Eric, and speedy Monika—all followed the blazing whirlwind that was Captain Jeremy. The Joliet club has exceptional bones and a body full of promise, perhaps unmatched anywhere in the Social Lights Volleyball Circuit.
Standing across the net was a decidedly unusual opponent. The eclectic turnout from the previous engagement had almost entirely vanished, replaced by what looked to be an altogether different aggregation. The outfit that emerged that Wednesday resembled some exotic jungle frog—bright, colorful, quirky, and unmistakably dangerous. Though, they maintained their penchant for gigantism. They appeared as polychromatic Friesian Nephilim crowned with birthday hats.
The two Captains met beneath the net. Captain Bethany’s scissors neatly dispatched Captain Jeremy’s paper, handing the opening serve to The Chosen—a small portent of things yet to come.
The opening tilt began with the Monee club bearing down heavily upon Cool Beans. Point after point piled onto their side of the ledger while the Joliet scrappers struggled to answer. Tactical chatter came slowly from Cool Beans’ southern court. The chromatic giants were having things almost entirely their own way.
Captain Jeremy loosed one of his trademark battle cries. It wakened both him and his bruisers. Suddenly he seemed to be everywhere at once, flashing across the court like summer lightning. The tide began to shift. Confidence wavered among the bedazzled Nephilim as Cool Beans fought tooth and nail for every point. But The Chosen had no intention of surrendering the advantage they believed rightfully theirs. They battered and clawed their way to game point, leading 20 to 17.
Determined to prove their mettle, the Cool Beans contingent took possession and started on a tear. Against the odds, with Captain Jeremy volleying shots to every corner of the southern court, the Joliet outfit rallied furiously.
Twenty all. The gallery fell silent. Players and spectators alike seemed unwilling to breathe.
Then came the decisive moment. Serving for Cool Beans stood the lone Monee defector now wearing Joliet colors—a tall, fleet-footed campaigner preparing perhaps the biggest serve of the evening. It was a beauty.
The many-hued mythic beings received it awkwardly and nearly let the ball die where it fell. A nervous current swept across the northern court. They knew full well that surrendering this point would end the victory march they had begun the previous meeting. Two hurried volleys kept the ball alive. Then a desperate reverse strike sent it soaring toward the Cool Beans side. Immediately Captain Jeremy recognized the ball’s path.
“Out!” he called.
Its course plainly carried it beyond the boundary. Yet instinct can be a dangerous thing. One determined Cool Beans performer stepped beyond the line and reflexively popped the ball back into play with both hands. At an awkward angle the return sailed harmlessly beyond the northern boundary.
For one frozen instant nobody moved. Then the Monee contingent exploded. Like glitter on a rolling boulder, The Chosen erupted into celebration, having escaped with a razor-thin 21-20 triumph over one of the grittiest outfits in the circuit. The near miss landed like a prizefighter’s right hook square to Cool Beans’ midsection.
Shaken but not broken, the Joliet club exchanged sides with The Chosen and prepared for the second affair. The rainbow-clad giants again insisted upon dictating the pace. They surged ahead early. Cool Beans staggered but stood. Bit by bit the scrappers battled back until the scoreboard read ten all. It would prove the high-water mark.
The Chosen found another gear. Their towering performers rattled off point after point while Cool Beans struggled to wedge so much as a single tally between them. The Joliet contingent scratched out a handful of hard-earned markers, climbing to fifteen, but every gain was answered immediately by the Monee powerhouse. Soon enough The Chosen stood at game point once again.
Captain Jeremy flew from sideline to sideline like a tornado tearing across the Oklahoma plains, defending impossible shots and refusing to yield. But even whirlwinds can miss a strike. A single fatal error ended the contest. Heads lowered across the Cool Beans court as the bruisers dropped the second tilt by a count of 21 to 15.
The Chosen slipped quietly from the grounds like mystic elves disappearing between the trees of an enchanted forest. Their mission had been accomplished. Their honor remained intact. Their undefeated standing within the circuit lived to see another week.
Captain Jeremy gathered his outfit together after the affair. The conversation was earnest. Determined faces met determined faces. Before the club dispersed, each member vowed to do whatever was necessary to settle accounts the next time The Chosen stood across the net. The dope around the circuit says that rematch cannot come soon enough.
Serves Him Right vs. Net+
Meanwhile, the second-hour outfits began filtering onto the grounds. Serves Him Right, the determined contingent from Oak Forest, answered the bell early and took to the field behind the Cool Beans–Chosen affair for a bit of practice.
Several rooters claimed to have spotted Captain Ian casting long glances toward the neighboring court as Cool Beans absorbed its second defeat of the evening. One can only speculate what sort of wicked grin may have slashed his face as his chief rivals found themselves twice on the short end of the ledger.
League officials David and Audrey, meanwhile, kept a wary eye fixed upon the northern horizon. The black clouds were growing. League official David carelessly waved away concern, assuring everyone that the storms would pass harmlessly by. League official Audrey appeared unconvinced.
Not long afterward, the blue army of Wheaton, Net+ (Net Positive), answered the bell ahead of its scheduled 7:30 engagement. With the preceding contest already concluded, league officials urged Net+ and Serves Him Right to take the court early in hopes of stealing a game before the weather could steal the evening. Though a bit disappointed by the hurried proceedings, Net+ took up positions on the northern court. Their bright blue shirts shimmered beneath the gray sky like a patch of clear Kansas heaven.
Overhead the clouds remained little more than a silver haze. To the north, however, enormous walls of black thunderheads stood watch like an advancing army. League official Audrey glanced skyward once more.
The blue battalion occupied the north. Across from them stood the Serves Him Right outfit—vertically challenged perhaps, but carrying themselves with all the confidence of giants.
The opening serve was struck. Heavy electricity seemed to fill both the air and the atmosphere. Serves Him Right seized the initiative almost immediately. The darkness overhead appeared to sap some of the sunshine usually radiated by the blue-clad contingent. Point by point the Oak Forest club widened its advantage. As the affair continued, worried eyes drifted from the ball toward the northern sky and back again.
Captain Ian alone seemed untouched by the growing unease. Noticing uncertainty creeping into the faces of his own mini performers, he fixed them with a fierce stare and let out a low growl that carried clear across the court. The effect was immediate. His little outfit straightened as though snapped to attention.
Several members of Net+ appeared to catch the same fiery glance. Some witnesses insist they visibly wilted. Whether true or not, the scoreboard tells the tale. Serves Him Right carried off the opening contest by a commanding count of 21 to 9.
The blue battalion trudged toward the southern side of the court for the second game. Their brilliant sea of blue seemed almost faded beneath the gathering clouds. Between the approaching storm, the hurried pace of the evening, and the sting of defeat, spirits had plainly sunk. If a downpour had begun at that moment, it’d have been hard to determine whether raindrops or tears fell down their faces. Even Aleia, usually the brightest light in the Net+ contingent, wore an expression as gray as the sky itself.
The second tilt began in haste. League official David spent nearly as much time studying the northern horizon as he did the court before him. The players found themselves doing much the same. Serves drifted thoughtlessly into the grass while anxious glances darted skyward between volleys.
The affair scarcely had an opportunity to find its footing. At the first flash of distant lightning, David called the stillborn game to a halt. Some insist the whistle only came after Audrey opened his eyes to exactly what was unfolding overhead.
Expecting a cloudburst at any moment, everyone sprang into action. The league net came down in record time. Equipment disappeared into the league official’s vehicle. Players scattered. The unfinished contest seemed destined to become a casualty of the weather. Many felt they had been robbed of a proper scrap.
Yet the evening had one more surprise tucked beneath its rain clouds. When the grassy dust settled, Audrey had already departed for home. David stood alone beside his vehicle, having packed away the last of the league equipment. It was then that he noticed something unexpected. The entire Serves Him Right contingent. The entire Net+ contingent. Every last performer. They were all standing before him. Waiting.
Captain Ian stepped forward to communicate what was on the hearts and minds of all present. He seized league official David by the collar of his shirt and raised him high as his arms reached. Some present insist the league official’s feet actually left the ground. Without a word spoken, Ian made one thing abundantly clear. His club intended to finish the contest. There were no two ways about it.
League official David posed one final question. Was everyone willing to accept the risk of lightning in order to finish the evening’s business? A forest of raised hands answered him. Each and every athlete present proved willing to hazard the storm for one more crack at victory.
David declined to reassemble the official court. Instead, the clubs marched across the grounds to the sand volleyball court nearby. There, beneath a sky that threatened everything but delivered nothing, Serves Him Right and Net+ took their places once again.
The contest began anew. Whatever had been left behind on the abandoned court remained there. The score. The frustration. Even the looming threat of the storm itself. Both outfits took the sand as though answering the bell for an entirely new engagement. The risks had been accepted. Death had received its courteous nod. Lightning and thunder now amounted to little more than background music. League official David looked from the determined dwarfish contingent of Serves Him Right to the gleaming blue battalion of Net+ and appeared just a shade uneasy at the intensity he had inadvertently unleashed.
Whatever cloud had hung over Net+ during the first contest had vanished. The drizzle struck their bright blue jerseys only to flee again like steam from a locomotive. Their celebrated sunshine strategy was roaring back to life. Captain Ian, however, had no intention of surrendering so much as an inch of sand without a vicious struggle.
From the opening serve it was plain that this would be no runaway affair. The points came hard. Each outfit earned every inch of ground. Though the blue battalion had recovered much of its former fire, Serves Him Right continued to hold a narrow advantage through the early going. Net+ refused to be left in the dust by the vertically unencumbered Oak Forest club. Instead they dug in. The score crept steadily upward. Rain began to fall. Not a soul paid it the slightest mind. The tally reached sixteen all.
Each splash of rain kicked sand across the court, coating bare hobbit feet in the south and blue uniforms in the north. The tension hung over the grounds so thick that a butter knife would have struggled to cut it. Point by point the two outfits battled onward. Seventeen all. Eighteen all. Nineteen all.
The gallery—what few faithful had remained beneath the threatening heavens—stood rooted to the spot. On one side, the sunny warriors of Net+ answered every challenge thrown before them. On the other, the determined Lilliputians of Serves Him Right stubbornly refused to yield. The pressure bore down equally upon both clubs.
Serves Him Right sent up a solid serve. Net+ received it cleanly. What followed may well have been the volley of the evening. Three crisp touches carried the ball back across the net. Serves Him Right answered with a tidy set and a driving return. Net+ calmly kept it alive. Again the ball crossed. Again it returned. Neither outfit showed the slightest willingness to blink.
Then came the decisive moment. Nathan, stalwart conscript for the blue battalion, saw his opening. Charging forward with admirable speed and, observing every applicable rule, he hammered the ball sharply into the little folk’s territory.
The point belonged to Net+. Nathan celebrated with a cry that one witness described as sounding remarkably like a hyena attempting to imitate a donkey. Whether this account survives careful investigation remains uncertain.
His comrades rushed to congratulate him, and the blue battalion seemed to radiate enough sunshine to blind the opposition. The point brought Net+ to game point, 20 to 19.
Aleia, Nathan, and Captain Sherrie stood poised as Laura stepped to the service line. She launched a stout serve sailing high over the net.
Captain Ian and his diminutive campaigners found themselves nearly blinded by the brilliant nimbus surrounding the Wheaton contingent. Trusting instinct more than sight, the little outfit dove as one toward where they reckoned the ball must surely descend. Their dogpile was all for naught. The nearly transcendent serve kissed the very corner of the court and settled safely inside the line. The affair was over. Serves Him Right had fallen.
A mighty chorus of jubilation rose from the blue battalion. Players embraced one another from every direction as their trademark bright spirits finally carried them into the victory column.
Captain Ian slowly disentangled himself from his pint-sized campaigners and looked across the court. There before him unfolded a sight difficult for even the hardest competitor to resist. The Net+ contingent celebrated not with arrogance or self-aggrandizement, but with the unrestrained delight of athletes who had fought long and finally earned their reward.
Even a serious operator like Ian appeared touched. The dope making the rounds afterward held that the Oak Forest skipper bore not the slightest grudge against his conquerors. Indeed, some particularly imaginative witnesses insisted the captain even shed a tear of happiness on Net+’s behalf. This reporter remains highly skeptical of that last claim. After all, everyone knows real men don’t cry.
Looking Forward
With the official business concluded, the two outfits mixed their performers together for several friendly affairs outside the league standings. Laughter replaced battle cries as the evening wound toward its close.
Captain Ian, however, betrayed little more emotion. As his travel-sized aggregation laughed and fraternized with the victorious blue battalion, the Oak Forest field general appeared to be engaged in sterner business. He was preparing himself. His thoughts had already marched ahead to the next engagement.
Awaiting his little outfit stood the still-undefeated powerhouse from Monee—The Chosen The coming affair promises to be nothing short of David versus Goliath. Ian knows well that standing across the net from the towering Friesian giants will be the stiffest test yet faced by his determined little band.
Yet reliable scuttlebutt says the captain’s confidence has not wavered a whit. He believes that enough sweat, enough practice, and enough stubborn resolve will enable his underdog elves to accomplish the impossible and sweep both league tilts from the mighty Monee club. Ordinary victory will not satisfy Captain Ian. Nothing short of legendary triumph will do.
This reporter owes the faithful an apology for the tardiness of this account. It should have reached your doorstep more than a week ago. Nevertheless, it arrives just in time for tomorrow’s engagements.
The saga resumes at 6:30 when the radiant blue battalion of Net+ squares off against the scrappy Cool Beans outfit.
Then, at 7:30, all eyes will turn toward what may prove the hottest scrap of the young campaign as Captain Ian and his determined little aggregation attempt to topple Captain Bethany and her towering assemblage of giants.
Until then, keep your ear to the ground, your eye on the circuit, and stay tuned. This campaign is only beginning.
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