“Under the harvest moon, a murder of crows gathered in a tall oak outside the gym. Who can know why?
Inside, fans held their breath. A free ball fluttered over; Melrose attacked. A collision followed and the ball dropped. The final point posted on the scoreboard.
Young women screeched, others streamed off the bench. Hugs and ceremonial shoves ensued, whatever that means. Please do not knock down Anna or Dani or Gen or Kayla.
The crows could not care less.”
You write your narrative, knowing that minstrels will not sing ballads, but maybe you’ll get ink in the Boston papers.
57 teams in Division 2, Barnstable to Burlington, Marblehead to Minnechaug, chase volleyball supremacy. Every season ends in tears, tears of disappointment or joy.
The bruises, the muscle aches, the frustration over performance go unseen. Players tell families, “you don’t know how it feels.” Parents say, “Go on. Tell us.”
There’s reading to do, unfinished papers, and college applications for some. Or Driver’s Ed and text messages and a family birthday.
And trying to make sense of the world and relationships and flop sweat when down a set.
“You can do this.”
Lagniappe. Persist.
Lagniappe 2. Every memory differs. Some register only a little. Others last a lifetime - births, deaths, the thrill of victory and agony of defeat.
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