Last night official signaled the start of the outdoor sand volleyball season. I know what you're all thinking...really Nicole? Volleyball? Outdoors? In April? In CLEVELAND?
Hardy har har. No it wasn't 30 degrees and snowing (although knowing Ohio, there was a 50% chance of this). Actually, it was a balmy 40 degrees and moonsooning. Yes, moonsooning is not a verb, but I made it one. Sue me for being creative.
So, thescene is set. Lots of cold, lots of rain, lots of complaints from the peanut gallery.
And now enter: swampball.
Lovingly named so because upon arriving at the hole-in-the-wall bar we call home in the summer, the court looked like this:
But ten times worse and complete with a full lake on the side of it. It was more like an obstacle course. Or a game of land mines. At any moment, without warning, you could fall and land up to the middle of your shins in sand.
Which happened to me about 50 times. I'd be running to get the ball and POOF! Stuck in the sand, arms flailing, local drunkards chuckling. And then I'd do something stupidly brilliant like try to get unstuck without help. By grunting and attempting to lift out one foot at a time until I fell over into the swamp. Cue local drunkards again.
No worries, we won all three games. But only because the girls on the other team were terrified of the swampy conditions. I should have listened to them, my legs are indeed out of order today. Apparently sand stomping is not my forte. I should have just stuck to indoor.