When I went back to college after my mission, I decided to fill my Phys. Ed. requirements with a volleyball class. I had played the same game most Americans have played that we generously call volleyball, where the only thing more lacking than knowledge of the game is talent to play it. I remember my first volleyball experience being at a family reunion where the only consistent rule was “two tries for small fries,” meaning if a young player missed a serve, he got a second chance. I liked this rule, being a small fry at the time. In my teens I played in some more competitive, competent games, but never seriously. So I decided to take a beginner volleyball class.
There was a girl in the class—we’ll call her Emily, since that was her name—who attracted a lot of attention from the guys. She was very cute, friendly, and not a bad volleyball player. And I, being a recently returned missionary, was on a short schedule for marriage.
I was kind of a chicken though, not daring to ask her out in person. Luckily, a friend knew a guy; actually he knew a lady from his neighborhood who worked in the school’s administration office. Most likely breaking the law, but also interested in our post-mission efforts to avoid becoming menaces, she procured me Emily’s phone number.
Later, after writing down exactly what I would say, I called the number given me. An older lady answered the phone. I asked for Emily.
“Sorry,” she replied, “She moved out when she got married. Can I take a message?”
I’m not sure how long it took for my heart to resume beating and my brain to pick up the signal again, but I finally stammered something like, “No thanks. I’ll just talk to her in class.”
Luckily, this small fry got a second try on that serve, and promptly stepped off the court.
So funny, Dave. These experiences from your past, put in the context that you do, crack me up. Thanks, bro.