Tragedy Nine Years Apart, or, The Day I Lost The Big Game
The day was today, and the time was a little before I felt all the worst feelings in the whole entire world that myself or anyone has ever felt. More specifically, around 1:20pm. And I’d been shit talking 8th graders all week.
I’d been brought on as a substitute teacher, testing helper, and on one occasion (so far) theater understudy-then-perfomer back in September of last year. I didn’t know how being back at elementary school and jr. high would feel, especially as a substitute. Answer: not entirely weird, but sometimes, sure, was odd.
Today is not about exposition and backstory. It’s about tragedy.
As said, it was around 1:20pm and I’d been shit talking the 8th graders all week. I’d been at the school since Tuesday to help proctor standardized tests (read: helping the youngest kids in school understand how a test on a computer works, bless their little hearts). That Tuesday I was informed that the 8th Grade vs. Teachers volleyball game was at the end of the week. Other teachers began asking, “Are you gonna play?”
Am I gonna play? Lol. If the powers that be allow me on that court, yes. And I’m gonna take it way, way too seriously. Enter: 9 years prior.
The year was 2016 and the month was the same one it is now and my life was tumultuous and a little crazy but still fantastic. Can life be such adjectives when you’re in 8th grade? Sure it can. And I surely remember it was. But we had the 8th Grade vs. Teachers volleyball game that week. I’d been preparing.
See, I don’t really remember any of the game myself. My present coworker, previously teacher, told me that I wore a full-body silver morph suit to the game under my jersey and shorts. I very vaguely, barely remember that. Likely, I assume, because we lost. I blocked out the memory. We lost that game and thereafter felt all the worst feelings in the whole entire world that myself or anyone has ever felt. It’s the big game. You don’t swallow that pill so easily.
So, once again, it was around 1:20pm and I’d been shit talking 8th graders all week. I had just changed into my volleyball outfit (navy mesh shorts, cool shirt with sharks on it, old oatmeal colored hokas and reliable white tube socks). One of the teachers passed by the office where I was working.
“Oh, you’re ready then. This is serious.”
Frankly, I don’t understand how it couldn't be serious. It’s the big game, guys. My part-time coworkers. Come on now.
Around 1:40pm, we migrated to the gym, students and volleyball court waiting for us and more students pouring in. The assembly started and unimportant announcements and little certificates were passed out (read: beautiful and important and well-deserved little certificates, that, while well-deserved, delayed the game that meant the most to me. Our students are great.) We got on with the main event.
Rules were discussed. Standard volleyball rules. You touch the net while the ball is in play, point goes to the other team. Score points and you win.
Our other tallest man started on the court and I started off. The rotation had been perfectly crafted by our humanities teacher-also-volleyball coach at the high school, and good Lord up above, I was ready. So was our referee, and she announced it with a whistle.
It begins. Began. I’m not great at staying in the same tense.
The 8th graders put on a show, but our teachers had their top hats and canes right alongside them. Point-for-point, band for band (I just looked that up, I’ve been using band for band wrong). We start to take a small lead. The rotation continues to move, and finally, I get my time on the court.
Entering the rotation as the server is stressful. As a former student-now-substitute? Terrifying. But breath work does wonders, and I was ready to be my best.
“Now entering the court… Submarino!” announces a separate but just-as-important present coworker, previously my teacher, surely not making my nervousness any worse.
I serve.
Back. Forth. Back. Point won.
I serve again. Back. Forth. Point lost.
Ain’t it so fun to be able to play in a game like this again? To feel the ups and downs and see your hands shaking before the first point, which is, frankly, hilarious, given the stakes of this game? Truly.
We had a 6 man rotation on, and I got to play for a dozen or so points. We get ahead. We storm ahead. By the time I get rotated off, we’re a few points from winning.
“Point for the teachers!” A line we’d heard around 8 more times this set than “Point for the 8th Graders!”
Our 24th point comes. Point lost. 24th point again, turning to 25. Game set match. The crowd goes crazy. Wild. No yelling allowed in the gym. Break that rule kids. I wanna hear ya.
We were restricted for time, not sets. Only so many minutes in the school day. We don’t switch sides and the second set begins.
Whistle! (Serve!)
Band for band! Point for point! Get cameras in this gymnasium and televise it to the world! This is the sporting event of the year. Maybe week, but perhaps year. I quickly get in the rotation.
Serve. Point for us. Serve. Out of bounds, point for them. Happens. I won’t cry.
I make my way around the rotation. Feats of athleticism never before seen grace the vision of these children. The faculty puts on a show, but the 8th graders had rummaged in the costume and prop bins and came dressed accordingly.
I’m on the front line now. Served to us. Bump. Bump over. Bump, set, gentle hit over. Bump on our side.
“Set! Here!”
Another present coworker (the humanities teacher-also-volleyball coach at the high school), previous teacher that taught at the school I was at but that I did not have, sets me. I know that was a long confusing sentence.
I climb through the air. I spike.
My ball meets the hands of an 8th grader.
I fall. The ball follows after. I appreciate the time in between. I recover the block and manage to hit it back in the air.
Frankly, I don’t remember if we win the point. All games are made by many points. I fear I do not remember them all. But I do feel the profound sense of humility of being blocked by a 14 year old. After the point I give him a firm sort-of-handshake thing, you know. I like that kid.
By the time I get out of the rotation, the game hasn't gotten any less close. To sit on the sideline while the game nears a tie is torture. “Point for the teachers!” “Point for the 8th graders!”
To see that you’re about to enter the rotation again while in a deuce? Absolutely terrifying.
The score was probably 26-26. I enter again to serve.
Whistle! (Serve!) Hit, bump, bump, return. Set, falter.
“Point for the 8th graders!”
This dance, this terrifying dance, continues. I prompt the kids to cheer. They do. This, as I said, is a game. The big game.
My heart races, and appropriately so. I watch and dance with an eager heart that also fears whatever outcome can happen.
Bump. Serve. Set. We dance.
Set. Bump. Spike. We move.
“This game has to end eventually! So… next point wins!”
30-30. All previous 103 points don’t matter now. The classic ultimatum.
And my heart beats all the more.
I turn to my humanities teacher-also-volleyball coach at the high school coworker.
“My whole weekend, the mood of my whole weekend, depends on how this point goes.”
Whistle! (Serve!)
The ball flies through the air. It flies my direction. “Mine!”
And the ball reaches my hands.